Between a Rock and a Hard Place
by Obsessive Freak
Summary: Our favourite heroes get more than they bargained for, after an ordinary investigation leads them into a dangerous situation. They will all have to put their feelings aside and do what they need to do, not what they want. I suck at summaries, don't want to give too much away... A Sherlock/John/Lestrade Fic. Warnings for violence and torture.
1. Chapter 1

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

While investigating a seemingly ordinary crime scene, our heroes find themselves in a less than ideal situation.

Warnings: Violence and Torture

Disclaimer:

I do not, nor have I ever owned anything Sherlock related (other than the DVD's and the 2013 yearly calendar) I am not that talented. It all belongs to the BBC and the magnificent Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The original Sherlock Holmes is of course a creation of the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All credit must go to them for the characters. Even though they don't belong to me, I still like to take them out and play with them once in a while… problem is, I don't always play nice…

Summary:

While investigating a seemingly ordinary crime scene, our heroes find themselves in a less than ideal situation.

Warnings for violence, torture, mentions of drug use

Authors Notes:

This is my second fic and my first Sherlock. (Don't go looking for my other one – it was like 10 years ago and I never finished it :/) So yeah comments and constructive criticism would be good. I don't have a beta or anything so if there are mistakes I apologise. I have noticed in writing this, that I have a particularly bad problem with tenses and when to you what… Hopefully it's not too far off the mark. Sorry in advance.

* * *

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

- Chapter One –

* * *

He sits on a cold metal chair, arms twisted and tied awkwardly behind his back. The latest blow to the head has made his vision blur slightly and he does what he can to keep the blood from dripping into his eyes.

"TELL ME!"

He can see the man before him is fast losing patience. He keeps his head down, doing what little he can to protect himself, as another round of punches connects with his face and chest. The battered figure remains silent.

"You're really start'n to piss me off!"

He hears a slight scrape of metal, as his captor once again picks the electric baton up off the floor. He can hear the crackle of electricity as he tries to force all thoughts from his mind. He knows what is about to happen, and while being mentally absent from his body doesn't stop the pain, it does help - he learnt this pretty quickly after the first hour in this room.

His thoughts are so far away; he doesn't even notice the heavy door open and the second man walk in.

"Getting anywhere?"

"Not a thing!"

He can hear the anger clearly in the younger man's voice and just a little bit of fear.

"He's not even talking anymore, hasn't said a single thing in over two bloody hours!"

The second man turns to face him, and he gets his first look at this new figure. Mid 30's, tall, dark hair, wears an expensive suit and holds his head up high. This must be the one in charge. This is the one responsible for him being in this god forsaken hell hole and this is the one who is likely to be responsible for those two bodies found earlier.

"You don't want to talk? That's ok; we'll just have to move on to plan B." He turns his attention back to the younger man and continues. "Give me ten minutes to set up, and then bring him down to the storage room."

The young man turns to his superior and gives him a curt nod, with the slightest look of disappointment. Loosening his tie and walking away from the bruised and bleeding form, the suited man stops momentarily to consider his young associate.

"Don't worry Jatz, it'll be fun." He says with a small grin. "In the meantime, feel free to let off some more steam on our friend here."

The two men share a quick look, before the elder turns swiftly and exits the room, the door slamming loudly behind him.

Jatz slowly turns to his prisoner once more, the baton in his hand now fully charged.

"Oh, I'm gonna enjoy this."

* * *

**8 Hours Earlier…**

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson exited their taxi and started to walk the few steps to the Skyridge hotel. It was a cool night, and Sherlock was in a mood. The trip had taken exactly six minutes longer than necessary because the driver refused to follow his instructions. Sherlock had been prepared to make a scene, however one glare from John and the issue was dropped. The driver had continued on quite happily, having no idea about the metaphorical bullet he had just dodged.

The hotel itself was quite empty. It was an older establishment in the city centre, small and outdated. Only ten doors spanned down the dimly lit corridor towards the end room, now cordoned off by police tape. They had received a phone call from DI Lestrade no more than 40 minutes ago, asking for their assistance in a double homicide. Sherlock had jumped at the chance and John had happily followed -anything was better than a lesson from his housemate on the life cycle of maggots.

"Thanks for coming guys. The first victim is Tony Roberts, according to his ID. A 28 year old Software Designer from Leeds… must be down for work. Single gunshot wound to the lower abdomen. Looks like he bled out." Lestrade said, in way of greeting.

The room itself was relatively small and only very basic. Two single beds, a small table with one chair, TV and a small bar fridge. The kind of accommodation reserved for people with a small budget and an even smaller itinerary.

"We don't have anything on the second vic yet, but it looks like cause of death was a single gunshot wound to the head."

The two men entered the room cautiously, watching their feet as to avoid the large pool of blood spread out over the ancient looking carpet. The patch appeared to be emanating from the first victim, and extended out in a number of different places. All signs pointed to the fact that it had been a slow and painful death.

The first victim, Tony Roberts, was lying face down just inside the room. His head faced the doorway, as if he had been trying to crawl for help. He was a fairly tall man; well groomed and dressed in a pair of blue jeans, with a white shirt and black jacket. A few meters further into the room, lay a second body with a visible gunshot wound to the head. He was younger than Roberts, only in his early 20's and he looked as if he'd seen some hard times. His clothes seemed as if they were in need of a good laundering and all appeared slightly too big on the man's small frame. He was lying on his back, gun in hand, wearing cargo pants and a dark grey Hoodie. Despite the bloody mess in front of them, John couldn't help but notice the lack of police presence one would normally expect to find at a double homicide crime scene.

"The room was booked under Roberts's name 5 days ago for two weeks. A young lad a few doors down heard gunshots and called it in just after 10." Lestrade informed them.

"So they shot each other?" asked John quickly.

"It would appear that way. We were hoping you would be able to help shed some light on who the second victim is. The department is stretched a bit thin at the moment thanks to that set back in the Marshall case. The Chief Superintendent is all over us, so any help you can give me would be greatly appreciated. Oh and before I forget, we also found this…"

Lestrade handed Sherlock a small piece of paper. It had been ripped from a larger note pad and was covered in blood. The message on the paper had obviously been written in a hurry. It was short, but in no way simple. It read:

_TL Esc rprt 2ho head SUT _

"Interesting… Where did you find it?" Sherlock asked, glancing around the small room again.

"The inside jacket pocket of Mr Roberts over there." He replied, pointing over to the dead man in question. "Listen, I can give you pretty much as long as you like, the Crime Scene Unit won't be here for a few hours yet, so take your time." Lestrade finished with a small smile.

Handing back the note, Sherlock slowly made his way through the small hotel room, taking a mental note of the small suitcase in between the two beds; the small bullet hole in the wall near the door and the contents of the waste bin by the table. Making his way up to the younger man, Sherlock squatted down carefully by his side, as if trying not to get too close.

"What did you find on the body?"  
"Just an old mobile phone. Not many contacts, but we'll send it off to have it analysed. Hopefully it may give us some indication as to what he was doing here in the first place."

Sherlock stood up with a sigh, as John ducked down to take his place.

"He remind you of anyone Lestrade?" Sherlock mumbled quietly.

"Well, yeah… I didn't really want to say anything though."

"What do you mean?" came John's voice from his position on the floor. Sherlock turned his gaze back to the body and started pointing out his observations.

"This victim is clearly a long term drug user. Dishevelled, thin and unclean. He has no personal property other than a phone and a gun, which I am guessing he was given prior to coming here. If you pull up his sleeve John, you will no doubt find the proof you need."

John reached forward slightly, pushing the worn jumper up the young man's arm. He noticed almost immediately the vast array of small puncture wounds littering his arm. Some were old and healed over, others painfully new.

"Let me guess, three shots fired?" Sherlock asked, turning once more to the DI, who gave him a quick nod of confirmation.

"Hmm, just what I thought. This wasn't a professional hit, his aim was too poor. More likely it was an opportunity to clear a debt. As for this one…"

He turned to consider the second body, stepping slowly around the pool of blood and pausing with a slightly confused look on his face.

"You said he was a software designer correct?"

"Yeah, that's right. His work ID was in his wallet."

"Anything else found on the body other than that note?"

"Just a few coins and the hotel room key."

Sherlock positioned himself at the man's head and bent over to get a closer look.

"No" he mumbled quietly to himself.

"I'm sorry, what?" Lestrade asked.

"No, that's not right."  
"What do you mean?"

"This man, he's not a software designer."  
"How do you know that?"

Sherlock shot Lestrade an annoyed look. "Are you really so blind? The evidence is blatantly obvious."

"Enlighten me."

"Look at his hands! Rough with a number of calluses, which means that he uses them frequently - not for typing. Or how about what he is wearing? Not exactly the look you would be going for if you're in town for work and do I really need to point out that he has no computer? Or phone? What kind of computer software designer travels without a computer or phone?" Sherlock asked, clearly frustrated, before demanding to see the contents of the man's wallet.

"Honestly. It's like all your brains are powered by little mice running on wheels. Ah, just as I thought. They're fake, all forgeries"

"Really?" Lestrade asked with a hint of scepticism.

"Very good forgeries, I'll give you that. Professional job. This 'Tony Robert's isn't who he appears to be. Probably isn't even his real name."

"So..? This is all just down to drugs then?" John asked, standing up to meet them.

"No I don't think so, there is more to it than that. For instance what happened to the other person who was staying here?"

"Wait, what makes you think there was a second person staying here? The room wasn't booked for two people." Sherlock made a pained sigh.

"The number of take away containers in the waste basket, enough for two people."

"Maybe he just had company. You don't think this other guy..."

"No of course not! Pay attention Lestrade! Clothes around the room, a different size to either of the two victims and then there's the note… Oh!"

"What?"

"Ohhhh this _is_ getting interesting."

"Sherlock" John said with a warning tone.

"This is drug related but not in the way that you think. It's much bigger than that."

He walked over to the younger victim and lifted the left leg of his pants up to reveal a small symbol just above the ankle on his left leg.

"This is the work of the 'Scarlet Rose'." He finally announced with a small smile.

"The crime syndicate?"

"Exactly! I think you'll find that Mr Robert's over there is actually…"

The sounds of loud yelling came floating into the room from the hotel entrance, cutting his sentence short.

"What the hell?" Lestrade asked quietly and to no one in particular. He walked over to the door and peered outside into the now empty corridor. "You two, stay here" he said glancing back at them.

"Wait!"

"Sherlock, I have to go find out what's going on out there! I'll be back in a minute."

"I'll come with you, watch your back." John said with a small smile, pulling his service revolver out from its hiding spot.

"I wish you wouldn't bring that thing out in public." Lestrade grumbled.

"Well I wish, they'd just issue you with a gun." John replied, as the two made their way to leave.

"No wait! Can you hear that?" Sherlock's voice sounded urgent and it was enough to make the other two stop in their tracks.

"Hear what?"

Without warning, the window behind them shattered and glass came flying into the room. A hand suddenly appeared in the large opening, and threw a couple of small metal cylinders in their direction.

"That…"

Before the three of them could even blink, there was a large noise and a blinding white flash; then everything went black as they all fell into darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

While investigating a seemingly ordinary crime scene, our heroes find themselves in a less than ideal situation.

Warnings for violence and torture (Rated T for now, but it may change)

Disclaimer:

I do not own Sherlock. It all belongs to the BBC and the magnificent Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The original Sherlock Holmes is of course a creation of the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All credit must go to them for the characters. Even though they don't belong to me, I still like to take them out and play with them once in a while… problem is, I don't always play nice…

Authors Notes:

Sorry, this chapter is a bit shorter and took longer than anticipated. I have learnt a few things writing it though…

Real life gets in the way far too much.

It is EXTREMELY difficult to write your own fan fiction when you are obsessed with reading someone else's. (I have just found 'Forgotten Memories' by Zacha – go read it!)

Writing in a first person narrative sucks!

As a result, this chapter and the majority of the story will be in the third person. I've also gone back and changed the parts of the first chapter too.

Sorry about this, I'm still learning the ropes…

Thanks to all the people who are following this story, or who added it to their favourites. At least I know someone is reading it. Thanks also to foxeeflame for giving me my first review!

* * *

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

- Chapter Two -

* * *

_Plop_

_Plop_

He groaned quietly as he slowly swam in and out of consciousness. His head was throbbing and his whole body felt heavy. He wanted to let go and give in to the darkness; it would be the easiest thing in the world to do, but a small voice told him to hang on to what little reality he could.

_Plop_

He felt cold, and the pounding in his head was making him feel nauseous. He tried to take a couple of deep breathes but found the air around him both thick and stale. He could feel himself slipping again, so he focused his attention on the dripping sound coming from somewhere nearby.

_Plop_

_Plop_

The sound was reassuring; it acted like an anchor and kept his mind clear of the fog. He could feel a heavy layer of fabric covering his head and face, and soon realised that he was likely blindfolded. He was almost glad; it made the task of opening his eyes unnecessary and he really didn't feel like opening them right now.

_Plop_

He briefly considered the fact that he should be panicking, but the thick, stale air and the pain in his head was making it hard to focus again. Thinking was becoming difficult, so he pushed aside all thoughts and went back to listening to the falling water. He would deal with the other problems later.

_Plop_

_Plop_

The unexpected sound of a door slamming was enough to finally jerk him into some level of alertness. He instantly froze, as he listened to the new sound of footsteps moving towards him. His eye's snapped open beneath the cloth as they searched aimlessly for some clue as to what was going on.

"Wakey wakey, rise and shaky" a disturbing voice sang, somewhere above his head. "You've been out for AAAAAGES!"

He tried desperately to piece together what had happened. The last thing he could remember was being at a crime scene, but the details were still fuzzy. It was too dark, he couldn't see anything and it was making him feel uneasy. As if reading his mind, the unknown figure reached down and removed the black material covering his head.

"How about that, he lives!" The man in front of him said with a truly creepy smile.

He looked like your average 'gun-for-hire'. He was tall and strong, with tattooed arms; dark, greasy hair, with a couple of teeth missing and more than a few scars.

He took the opportunity to look around the room; reasonably sized, but very bare with a solid metal door. He couldn't help but think of one of the interrogation rooms at Scotland Yard, minus all the creature comforts like modern lighting and plumbing. The room was lit only by a single globe, which made the man currently looking down at him, appear even more disturbing. He glanced over to the nearest corner, where he could see a bucket collecting the dripping water from a small hole in the ceiling. He tried to focus on the sound again.

_Plop_

"Have a nice nap?"

He noticed for the first time, that both of his arms had been pulled behind his back and handcuffed to a cold, metal chair. Almost instantly, his arms began to scream in protest at the unnatural position they had been forced to endure. This would have made most people fearful; however, it just made him angry. The realisation that his own handcuffs were now being used to hold him captive was enough to finally provoke a response.

"Look, I don't know what's going on here, but you should know that I'm an officer of the law…"

"Yeah I know!" the man said excitingly, cutting him off.

"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade…" He continued, holding up Lestrade's wallet and ID.

"Now doesn't that just sound impressive? Bit of a mouthful if you ask me. Me and me mates just call you lot 'Pigs'… Rolls of the tongue easier."

"Well since you know so much about me, how about giving me your name?"

"Alright then… Frank"

"Is that your real name?" Frank responded by giving him a slow, smug smile.

"Well it was worth a try. What exactly do you want?" asked Lestrade, his confidence slipping.

"Me? I don't want nothing, I'm just doin' a job. My employer on the other hand… Well he wants some information." Replied Frank, pulling up a chair and sitting opposite the Inspector.

"What kind of information?"

"About that crime scene you was at, just before." Frank replied.

"What about it?"

"What can you tell me about Alex Walters?" Frank asked as he leaned forwards in his chair, suddenly very serious.

"Who?"

Frank leaned back again, with a small smile.

"Wrong answer."

The punch which followed caught him off guard. He sat stunned for a moment, the left side of his face aching.

"We'll try that again."

Lestrade had just enough time to think about how much trouble he was in, before another fist connected with his stomach. He tried to clear his mind and focus once more on the steady dripping sound but found it didn't offer the same comfort anymore. Earlier it had given him security and calm, but now it just mocked him. The noise grated on his nerves and he knew there was not a thing he could do about it, much like the situation he now found himself in.

* * *

**7 Hours Earlier**

Sally Donovan was on her way back to the station after interviewing a particularly uncooperative witness to a home invasion which had resulted in the death of a teenage boy. Apparently it was well known around the community that the boy had several ties to a number of particularly nasty street gangs, so the neighbours were keeping very tight lipped on the matter. It was frustrating, but understandable; no one wanted to draw a target on themselves. Things had been chaotic at the Yard over the last few days and it was starting to wear her down. Sally wanted nothing more than to go home and get some well earned sleep, but she pushed that though aside when she received a call from dispatch directing her to the Skyridge Hotel.

"Early reports are that there has been some kind of explosion. Officers are already at the scene on an unrelated case but we have not been able to establish contact with them yet."

"Copy that, on my way. ETA 10 minutes."

Sally took the first right, flicking her lights and sirens on as she went. If her foot pressed a little too far down on the accelerator, she didn't notice.


	3. Chapter 3

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

While investigating a seemingly ordinary crime scene, our heroes find themselves in a less than ideal situation.

Warnings for violence and torture (Rated T for now, but it may change)

Disclaimer:

I do not own Sherlock. It all belongs to the BBC and the magnificent Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The original Sherlock Holmes is of course a creation of the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All credit must go to them for the characters. Even though they don't belong to me, I still like to take them out and play with them once in a while… problem is, I don't always play nice…

Authors Notes:

So I know very little about the British police and how they do things. Don't be alarmed though, because what I do 'know' I've learnt from TV shows and movies so it must be pretty accurate… right?

Apologies if I am way off. The same is said for locations around London. I have only been there a couple of times, so I am not too familiar with the place (Thank God for creative licensing).

Any feedback/comments would be great. Am I repeating myself too much? Are my descriptions just dragging on forever? Are the characters believable? I hope I haven't lost anyone and that you're all enjoying it.

* * *

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

- Chapter Three -

* * *

**7 Hours Earlier**

When Sally finally arrived at the scene, she was confronted by a number of emergency personal who appeared to be doing very little. It was clear from the hurried conversations going on around her, that no one really knew what was going on or what to do. She looked over and watched, as a young couple came stumbling out of the lobby area, coughing and gasping for breath. It was then, she noticed the for the first time, the smoke billowing out of the building, causing a dark thick cloud to gather in the sky. She wondered briefly how on earth she could have missed it, before her thoughts were redirected to the sound of a very angry DI Dimmock yelling into his car radio.

"This is ridiculous! We've been on scene now for well over 10 minutes, where the HELL are they?!"

Donovan, somewhat reluctantly, made her way towards the police car and it's very agitated driver.

"That's what you said five minutes ago!"

Unfortunately Sally was unable to clearly hear the reply from dispatch, but whatever was said it did not go down well. Dimmock rattled off a short string of obscenities before throwing the radio onto the passenger seat and slamming the car door with so much force, she thought for a moment he had broken it.

"Donovan" the man said simply.

"Sir" Sally replied. "Has everyone been accounted for?"

"Not at this stage. We have yet to make contact with one of our officers and we can't be sure of how many people were in the building at the time of the explosion. We're still waiting on the Fire Department; we can't get in there yet. The hotel manager and two of our officers were found unconscious just inside the hotel lobby, they're being treated as we speak."

Sally looked over in the direction he was pointing and saw three very still figures lying on the ground surrounded by Ambulance officers.

"Hopefully we'll know more when they wake up." Dimmock continued "God where are those useless trucks?! If they take much longer, there will be nothing left to salvage!"

Donovan nodded her understanding and turned back in the direction of where the medical personal were now loading a young police constable into the back of an Ambulance. Other than the fact that he was clearly unconscious, he appeared uninjured.

The distant sounds of sirens floated into their awareness and Sally could not help but notice the DI's visible sigh of relief.

"About bloody time." The man grumbled under his breath.

There was something odd about his behaviour. He seemed anxious, an emotion not often associated with the usually arrogant man. Sally started to get the feeling that she was missing a key piece of information.

Two fire engines pulled up to the scene and she watched in fascination as a number of fire fighters jumped out of their rigs, grabbed their equipment and ran towards the smoking building. Where most would instinctively run from fire, they happily ran towards it. Their bravery and dedication towards their job was something Sally had always admired. She just hoped that they had arrived in time and that there was no one still trapped inside. With that thought, Donovan suddenly had a bad feeling.

"Sir? Who's the officer still unaccounted for?"

Dimmock's body stiffened and he remained silent for a minute, as if thinking carefully about how to respond. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath before answering.

"Lestrade" he said grimly. "He was leading the original homicide investigation. No one has seen him."

Sally felt her stomach drop.

"Are you saying that he's still in there?!"

Dimmock didn't reply but his face had paled considerably. The pair looked at each other for a while, before wordlessly turning towards the now visibly burning building. There was nothing either of them could do but wait and pray.

* * *

Another fist connected with his jaw, and this time he let himself slump further down in his chair. He was finding it difficult to keep his head upright, so he no longer tried, letting it simply roll to the side.

"Just tell me what I wanna to know and I'll stop."

"I've already told you, I don't know any Alex Walters!"

His head was still pounding, but he suspected that it had more to do with his current interrogation, rather than the after effects of the flash grenades. His mind was a lot clearer now, just as well too because he was going to need his wits about him if he was ever going to get out of there. The man who referred to himself at Frank, considered him for a moment before continuing.

"Ok fine… In that case, what can you tell me about the copper?"

"Wh… what copper?" His answer was in the form of another powerful knock to the stomach, temporary winding him.

"What copper?!"

"The one at the crime scene!"

"…What?" Lestrade was beyond confused. It was as if Frank was speaking another language. Nothing he was saying was making any sense.

"The only police officer at the crime scene was me…"

Technically speaking this was true. The two constables were supposedly guarding the perimeter of the building and as such were not really at the crime scene itself; and as for Sherlock and John, well they aren't even…

'_Sherlock and John!'_

He couldn't believe that he hadn't thought of them until now. John had been standing right beside him when the flash grenade went off and Sherlock was further inside the room. There was no way they could have avoided the blast. He wondered briefly what could have happened to them, before he was distracted by another punch, this time to the ribs.

"Cut the idiot act, I'm talkin' bout the dead one!"

"Wait, what?"

"This is gettin' really old". The annoyance in Frank was clearly evident now.

"Please… I really don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh come on, you expect me to believe that?! A Scotland Yard Detective knowing nothing 'bout the crime scene he was on."

"I wasn't exactly there for long before you abducted me!" Lestrade replied before spitting a mouthful of blood on the floor.

"What _do_ you know?!" Frank all but yelled.

The two men glared at each other, their hatred for one another growing with every passing second.

"Ok… ok, fine…" Lestrade started. "I'll tell you what I know, if you tell me what happened to the two men I was with."

"Ooooh" Frank said with a laugh.

"Don't think ya really in any position to be making any demands right now mate."

It seemed as though Frank was finding this all far too amusing. Clearly he was proving to be more fun than the crazy man had originally expected. Lestrade's eyes followed him as he paced around the small room, as if trying to decide his next course of action. Decision made, Frank turned back towards the Inspector, all signs of humour now gone from his face.

"Alright then… As far as I can tell, they're fine. You're the only one they brought in, you're the only one I've seen."

Lestrade could not contain the huge sigh of relief which followed this piece of information. Maybe things weren't as bad as he thought after all. It stands to reason that he would be the only one targeted. He was the only officer on scene. They would have assumed that he had all the necessary information regarding the case. They would have had no reason to grab the others, particularly if they had no knowledge of who they actually were. Lestrade had a new reason to be optimistic. If Sherlock was out there, he would be looking for him and God help anyone who stood in his way. There was still hope for him yet, he just had to hang on long enough for someone to find him. It was in this moment that Greg Lestrade decided that he would do whatever it took to keep himself alive and at that particular moment in time, that meant saying very little. He had to buy himself some time, and they wouldn't kill him if they thought he still had useful information.

"Well I kept up my end of the bargain, now it's your turn."

Lestrade, remained silent. He sat up in his chair, straightening his back then raising his chin up in defiance.

Frank stood in front of Lestrade with an annoyed smile on his face.

"So you wanna play it like that after all? Have to admit, I was kinda hoping you would."

Frank slowly pulled a switchblade knife from his back pocket and twisted it back and forth dramatically for Lestrade to see. The Inspector could do very little other than close his eyes and pray that Sherlock and the others would find him soon.

* * *

**4 Hours Earlier**

It had taken time for the fire department to finally get the flames under control. Sally had spent the first twenty minutes frantically trying to reach Lestrade on his phone but deep down she knew her efforts were futile. There was no way Lestrade would break protocol and leave a crime scene to go down to the shops, or visit the loo; at least not without informing anyone first. This meant that he was in the building when the explosion went off and when the fire started. Sally knew all this but chose to ring anyway; it was just easier than doing nothing. She tried his work number first, but it went straight through to message bank. She told herself not to panic, that it could mean a number of different things. Next she tried his office phone, but that eventually rang out. She then tried his home number with the same results, before ringing his mobile once more. This sequence went on for a number of times and resulted in a number of nasty voice messages being left, but eventually she had to concede. She stood for a short while, watching the flames lick the side of the building before even this became too much. She had then gone off in search of Lestrade's car. She hoped that she could find some evidence in there, or maybe find the man himself… She came back to the scene 20 minutes later with neither. The next 2 hours had been pure torture as she watched the flames slowly die down and the smoke clear away. There had still been no contact from the hospital as to who else they could expect to find in the now burnt out building and she found herself almost sick to the stomach with the thought of what they would discover. After more agonizing minutes, Dimmock and Donovan were eventually joined by the Fire Chief.

"Fire's finally out. My guys say you're going to need to get a coroner and a crime scene unit out here, they found bodies…"

At that moment it took all of Sally Donovan's will and focus not to throw up all over the man's shoes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

While investigating a seemingly ordinary crime scene, our heroes find themselves in a less than ideal situation.

Warnings for violence and torture (Rated T for now, but it may change)

Disclaimer:

I do not own Sherlock. It all belongs to the BBC and the magnificent Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The original Sherlock Holmes is of course a creation of the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All credit must go to them for the characters. Even though they don't belong to me, I still like to take them out and play with them once in a while… problem is, I don't always play nice…

Authors Notes:

I was up for a big chunk of the night trying to get this up by the end of the weekend, hope you all appreciate it. I don't have a beta for this story, so any feedback/comments would be great.

Thanks to Catie501 for the review and to the number of people who added it to their follow and favourite lists. You guys keep me writing.

Oh and also, go check out my super awesome Sherlock video on youtube. It's all about John coming to terms with Sherlock's death. I was going to write a story for it, but ended up making a video instead. Just add the following code to the end of the regular address: /watch?v=XWbn0Qo7_T0

* * *

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

- Chapter Four -

* * *

His chin rested on his chest as he sagged a little more in his chair. The last ten minutes of his interrogation had not been particularly pleasant and his body was enjoying the unexpected reprieve. His interrogator had left a few minutes ago, leaving him alone in the small, intimidating space. He had tried to look for an escape route, but found that he couldn't focus on anything for more than a few seconds before the room would spin. He had given up on the idea pretty quickly, choosing instead to try and relieve some of the pressure on his aching arms. He felt blood trickling down the side of his face from a wound somewhere on his forehead. He did what he could to keep the sticky liquid from falling into his eyes, but soon found he didn't care.

It had not taken him long to realise that things were only going to get worse. When the fist throwing psychopath returned, he would have to start talking, or he was going to end up losing more than a little blood. The problem was that he didn't really know anything. Sherlock had never got around to explaining what he had seen, and there was no way he was going to drag his friend into this too. He only knew what he himself had deducted while on the scene - which was not a lot. He became painfully aware, that there was a good chance that his captors, whoever they really were, would not believe his story. This thought troubled him greatly, as he listened to the sound of distant footsteps growing louder.

'Looks like it's time for round two'. He thought numbly to himself as the heavy door opened and crashed closed behind him, bringing with it the certainly of more pain.

* * *

**3 Hours Earlier**

After it was clear that nothing further could be done at the hotel, DI Dimmock had sent Sergeant Donovan and another officer to the hospital. Officially she was there to _'gather statements from the three witnesses when they woke up_'. Unofficially she was there because he was worried about her. Sally had gone very pale after they had received the news that bodies had been discovered in the still smouldering remains of the Skyridge Hotel. He was worried that she might go into shock and if that did happen, the hospital would be the best place for her to be.

She had been there for less than 5 minutes, when she was notified by hospital staff, that Constable Raimes had finally regained consciousness. It was with some trepidation that she made her way towards the small room. He wasn't looking too bad, all things considered. There was a large gash to the side of his head, but other than that the man looked unhurt.

"Hello Constable, how are you feeling?" Sally asked.

"Like I've just been hit over the head with a cricket bat." The man replied groggily. "How's Collins?"

"He's still unconscious, but the doctors are confident that he'll make a full recovery."

The young officer slumped back into his pillow nodding, a look of relief washing over his face.

"That's good."

"Listen I hate to do this to you now, but I need to ask you a few questions."

"Sure." He all but whispered.

"Can you tell me what happened back at the hotel?"

"My partner Collins and I responded to a shots fired, shortly after 10pm. It was quickly determined that there was no indication of any further danger. The two of us were asked to stay and secure the scene until the detectives and crime scene units had finished up."

"Do you think you could just skip to part about how you ended up like this?"

Sally didn't mean to sound heartless and uninterested but she needed to know about the explosion and the whereabouts of DI Lestrade as soon as possible.

"Well Collins was stationed by the lobby door while I was further around the corner, keeping an eye on the passage way. I was listening to Collins talking to the manager of the place and then it went silent. Collins quietly radioed me asking for some assistance, so I wandered out there. Next thing I know, all hell was breaking loose. Three guys just appeared out of nowhere, waving guns all around the place, yelling at us to get down. I remember Collins trying to call for backup but one of the guys ran up behind him and hit him in the back of the head. He fell to the ground like a stone and didn't move. I tried to get back into the hallway to warn DI Lestrade, but I must not have gotten very far. Next thing I know, I'm waking up here."

"So you didn't see or hear any explosion?"

"No sorry."

"Could you describe the men for me?"

"Not really. They were all average height, wearing dark clothes and balaclavas. Collins might be able to tell you more when he wakes up."

Sally felt her heart sink, they still had absolutely nothing to go on.

"DI Lestrade was at the scene with you, did you see him exit the building at all?" Sally held her breath.

"No, he was still in there, last I saw. Why is that? Isn't he here?"

"We haven't been able to locate him yet." Sally replied quietly. "Fire Fighters are searching the ruins as we speak."

Constable Raimes looked down at his bed sheets, his face now even paler.

"We'll keep you informed on the search if you like?"

"Yeah thanks." He said in a whisper. The two officers shared a few awkward seconds of silence before Sally made the customary 'get well soon' and turned to leave.

"Sergeant? What about the other two men? Did they make it out?"

Sally stopped dead in her tracks.

"What other two men?"

"The two men that came to see the DI."

Sally felt a shiver travel up her spine

"Let me guess - tall, dark curly hair, long coat, walked around like he owned the place. The other one would have been following him around, short with blond hair?"

"Yeah that's them. Did they make it out ok?"

Sally simply stared at the Constable for a moment, before turning and marching back out towards the hospital entrance. With a further feeling of dread, she took out her mobile and rang Detector Inspector Dimmock, who answered on the second ring.

"No news yet Donnovan, I told you I would let you know the second I found out anything."

"No sir, it's not that. I've got some bad news. It looks like we're got at least two more people unaccounted for at the hotel."

"Who?"

She took a deep breath before continuing.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."

* * *

The cut on his forehead was still dripping, constantly adding more of the warm liquid to the already dried patches on his face. His left eye had swollen considerably in the second round of interrogation and he now had the slight metallic taste of blood in his mouth. It hadn't taken him long before he had started to cough up information but just as he'd predicted, they didn't believe him when he said 'that's all I know'. In between recounts of his time at the crime scene, he was assaulted with flying fists and occasionally the random slice of a knife, before the whole routine would start over again.

Shortly after he had started retelling his knowledge of events for the fourth time, his interrogator had taken out a mobile phone and made a short call. The barrage of questions and pain stopped for a while then, as if they were waiting for something, or someone. He took the opportunity to try and clear the dripping blood out of his nose, breathing it in heavily, before spitting a mouthful of the liquid onto the floor. Although it wasn't an ideal thing to do, he did succeed in clearing his airways enough to comfortably breath again.

Within minutes, a man in a suit entered the small room and stood quietly in the corner without saying a word. The two glanced at each other for a moment, before his attention was drawn back to the crazy man waving a knife.

"How about we start from the beginning for my friend here?" He said with a disturbing smile.

He sighed quietly, and thought back to when he had first walked through the door of the crime scene at the Skyridge Hotel. It already seemed like a week ago.

"There were two bodies at the scene. One was about 30 and had bled out from a gunshot wound to the abdomen. The other looked like he was in his early twenties and had been shot in the head. Death would have been immediate. He appeared to have been a long term drug user and the condition of his clothing…"

"Yeah we don't care about the kid, what else do you know?"

He was momentary dumbstruck by the man's cold, bluntness but continued anyway.

"Um… The older guys name was um… Tony… Tony Roberts. His ID said he was a Software Designer from out of town."

"Where out of town?"

"Leeds."

"Who was he really?"

"I… I don't know what you mean… His ID said his name was Tony Roberts and that he was a Software Designer from Leeds… I swear, that's all I know."

He had a brief recollection about Sherlock not being convinced of the man's true identity, but he didn't know anymore. Sherlock hadn't had time to explain his theory before they were attacked.

The man who he now referred to as 'the Crazy Psycho Bastard', turned and looked at the other man standing in the corner. The shadowy figure remained still for a while, then slowly shook his head. The questions resumed.

"What else? Any witnesses?"

"No witnesses that I know of. Um… the guy didn't have a mobile phone on him, just a few coins and the hotel room key."

"Did he leave a message?"

"Not that I know of."

Crazy Psycho Bastard, looked back at the shadowy figure again, who this time gave a slight nod. Psycho Bastard turned back to him with that grin he had come to know all too well. Twirling his knife, he walked up and placed the tip of the blade against his left shoulder.

"You wanna try that again?"

"Not that I know of."

He felt the blade start to twist and dig through his clothing and into the soft flesh. It took all of his remaining will power not to react.

"I don't know about any message."

"See, the problem is we know who this man was and we also know that he would have left a message for his people. Now we didn't find a message when we went to grab you, which means that you're lying."

The blade dug deeper, tearing at the skin, causing a steady stream of blood to seep into his shirt and jacket.

"I could do this all day." The Crazed man, said with a smile. "I wonder how hard it would be to cut through bone…"

"Ok... You're right, there _was_ a note. It was written on a small piece of paper but I can't remember what it said."

"Try!" Psycho Bastard growled at him.

"I don't know! It was just a bunch of random letters and numbers."

The knife dug deeper, causing him to gasp.

"I swear, I don't know. It didn't make any sense to me, so I didn't think it was important to remember."

He could feel the blade tip, move slowly through the muscle, making his eyes water with pain.

"Please" he gasped out "stop".

The grin grew as he twisted the knife some more, widening the already large hole in his shoulder. He yelled out in pain, which only seemed to encourage the psychopath further. His vision was starting to blur and he worried about what they would do to him, if he passed out in the middle of an interrogation.

"Rusty."

The voice had come from the shadowy figure in the corner and it had an immediate effect on the mad man in front of him. The look of glee disappeared from the psycho's face, as he removed the knife from the tattered shoulder and took a step back.

"I believe him."

His head dropped as he sighed with relief. The mysterious man continued.

"Tell me, where is the note now?"

"I… I don't know. It must still be with one of the other two men I was with. I keep telling you, you picked the wrong guy. I don't know anything! I'm not a cop!"

ou wanna try that again?"up and placed the tip against his rned back to him with that grin he had come to know well. Twirling r

"I understand. Thank you for your cooperation Doctor Watson."

With that, the two men left the room, leaving John to wander what was going to happen next.


	5. Chapter 5

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

While investigating a seemingly ordinary crime scene, our heroes find themselves in a less than ideal situation.

Warnings for violence and torture (Rated T for now, but it may change)

Disclaimer:

I do not own Sherlock. It all belongs to the BBC and the magnificent Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The original Sherlock Holmes is of course a creation of the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All credit must go to them for the characters. Even though they don't belong to me, I still like to take them out and play with them once in a while… problem is, I don't always play nice…

Authors Notes:

Thanks to TheOneYouCameBackFor, It's-Somebody and Post U Later for the reviews! You doubled what I had in the first 3 chapters. At least I know a few of you out there are liking it. Hope this chapter lives up to expectation.

I hope the last chapter wasn't too confusing. I was trying to make it suspenseful. For those who got a little lost: Yes, Lestrade and John are both in the poo.

I really don't know about this chapter. I think I have confused myself, writing it… Trying to figure out the timeline is getting confusing and I don't think I have done it particularly well – thankfully it will all catch up and run on the same time very soon. Still, I don't know if I'm very happy with it… :/

In this chapter we finally find out where Sherlock is, and what happened back at the crime scene when all the commotion went down. Hope you like it.

Feel free to write me a review and let me know what you think. They are what I live for :D

* * *

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

- Chapter Five -

* * *

Sherlock was not impressed by the situation he found himself in; not impressed at all.

He knew there had been something wrong at the hotel, but of course John and Lestrade had been too slow to react and now they were all likely in a world of trouble.

Sherlock had been shocked by the flash grenades when they went off at the crime scene. He had been temporary rendered both deaf and blind by the force of the detonation. Fortunately for him, the cylinders had been tossed towards the doorway where his two friends had been standing. He managed to avoid the worst of the blast but had still lost all sense of balance and had fallen to the ground. Four men had then climbed through the window and had started to ransack the room, while another three people appeared at the doorway. There was nothing Sherlock's confused mind could deduce about the figures, they were wearing dark clothes and all had their faces covered. One of the three masked men who had entered through the door, pulled out a mobile phone and had made a call. Another had gone to check on Lestrade and John, who both appeared to be either unconscious or deeply stunned. The final man had swiftly walked over to where he had been lying and once he had realised that his intended victim was very much still awake, had forcefully turned him onto his stomach and pressed a knee into his lower back, effectively pinning him to the floor in his weakened state.

If the amount of yelling and sounds of crashing objects had been anything to go by, the men were not happy with what they saw. He had tried to focus on the phone conversation, but found that he couldn't hear anything specific over the loud ringing in his ears, only changes in volume and tone. It was at this point in time, that he had felt a slight pinch to the back of his neck, before his vision had blurred with whatever drug he had been injected with. He had then been manhandled, picked up between two large men and dragged out of the room. He could not remember seeing either John or Lestrade during this part of the ordeal, but he had trouble remembering much of anything after that. His vision had continued to blur and then darken as he slowly lost his grip on the conscious world.

He had woken up some time later in the back of a large van, blindfolded with his hands tied behind his back. He had a terrible headache, not helped by the bumpy road that they had been travelling on. He had felt a body of warmth to his left side and a number legs to his right, but had decided against investigating further, in favour of feigning unconsciousness and trying to gather useful data on where he might be. For once, his experimentation with narcotics in his younger days, had finally come in use, his tolerance level was obviously quite high. He had made a quick mental note, to rub that fact into Mycroft's face when they next met.

After only five minutes, the van had rolled to a stop and he heard movement all around him. He was grabbed by his coat and dragged up into a sitting position, before he was half carried, half dragged out of the vehicle and into a building. He still could not hear specific words or sentences, however he could tell that there were a number of people talking with raised voices. After a short break where he was almost dropped, the two men carrying him had walked a further 16 meters, taking two left turns and a right, before entering through a doorway and into a small room. He was then unceremoniously dumped onto a cold metal chair, before his hands had been relieved momentarily, then secured once again behind the back of the chair. He had slumped forward and slid downwards a little, continuing his act of unconsciousness. The two men had then left, slamming the heavy door behind them, leaving him alone with his thoughts. That had been several hours ago now and things had not improved much after that either.

The black material over his head had made it almost impossible to deduce anything about his immediate surroundings. Other than the fact that the van had been driving on an unsealed road for a short time, he had absolutely no idea where he was. He had no way of knowing how long they had been travelling or in what direction, before he had woken up. The ringing in his ears had started to quieten during the time he had been stuck in the room; however this did not help to produce any useful information. After what seemed like an hour, the door to the small room had suddenly opened, causing him to flinch ever so slightly. He had held his breath, hoping that whoever had entered hadn't noticed his mistake.

"I see you're awake then" said a cold voice. He had heard footsteps move towards him, then felt the black cloth bag being removed from his face. For the first time, he had been able to get a look at the room he was in. It was quite small, bare with concrete walls and floor. The door looked and sounded quite heavy and apart from the chair he was sitting it, the room was otherwise empty. A single light globe hung from the ceiling, swinging ever so slightly, throwing menacing shadows all over the room.

"How're you feeling?"

Sherlock had then turned his attention to the young man in front of him. He was only young, 24 perhaps, average height with dark blonde hair. He did not look like your average criminal, good looks and well dressed. He looked like he had received a good upbringing. Why a young man would be caught up in drugs and kidnapping he didn't know. It was an interesting notion, considering his own upbringing and previous drug use. He had sighed deeply, "dull".

The younger man had laughed.

"I'm sorry, am I boring you?" The young man had asked, both amused and surprised.

Sherlock had remained silent and had continued to do so, despite his captors various 'encouragements' to engage in conversation.

This had gone on for an unspecified amount of time, and it was only now, almost five hours after the original abduction, that he found himself angry enough to finally talk.

He was really not impressed, not impressed at all.

* * *

**3 Hours Earlier**

Sally Donovan was itching for something to do. It had been just over 20 minutes since she had informed DI Dimmock of the new developments and 19 minutes since she had been ordered to stay at the hospital. With the other two witnesses still unconscious, there was nothing more to do and it was driving her crazy. She thought about trying to contact either John or Sherlock, but realised she had never taken the time to get their numbers. After she had mentally berated herself for several minutes, Sally had managed to track down one of the hospitals phonebooks. It was 4.20am, when she had rung Mrs Hudson at 221 Baker Street and other than getting an earful of abuse about disturbing people at 4 o'clock in the morning; she found out no information on the whereabouts of her two tenants.

Sally had just started to consider the consequences of leaving the hospital, when she finally received the call she had been waiting for. She never imagined that hearing Dimmock's voice could cause her so much joy.

"Well the good news is that it doesn't look like there were any fatalities due to the fire. Two bodies were discovered in the room where the fire originated, but the experts say that these were likely the two victims of the original homicide." Sally felt like a huge weight had just been lifted and she could finally breathe again.

"Any sign as to what happened to Lestrade or the others?"  
"No, that's the bad news. The Fire Investigators won't be able to make it out until the morning, but the guys from the Fire Department, suspect that a large amount of accelerant was used. They also reported no evidence of a blast, which contradicts several statements from people who said they heard an explosion. It definitely appears that something amiss has taken place. The fact that most of the evidence of the original case has been conveniently destroyed and the lead investigator has gone missing cannot be mere coincidence. There is obviously something more to all of this; we just don't know what it is yet… I need you to track down Watson and Holmes' next of kin and inform them of the situation. They may be able to shed some light on where they may have gone; if they left of their own free will that is."

"Of course" Sally replied, happy that she finally had something constructive to do.

"Keep me informed of any developments."  
"Of course." Sally took one last look around the waiting room, then turned and walked out the door, hoping she would not have to return to the building again for any reason.

* * *

As another fist connected to his face, it took all of Sherlock's will power not to react. He wanted nothing more than to swear obscenities at the man and ram him into the wall, but he forced himself to refrain. He would not let this idiotic scumbag get the better of him.

"What do you want?" Sherlock grounded out between his teeth, finally breaking the long silence.

The man had stopped mid swing, it had taken a second for him to register the detective's low voice. The captor lowered his arm, a slight look of victory in his eyes.

"You were at the crime scene…" He paused, as if waiting for a response. It was some time later that Sherlock answered, with more than a little bit of sarcasm.

"I'm sorry, was that a question or a statement?"

The young man gave a slight smile, but didn't react any further.

"Tell me what you know" he demanded.

"I know a lot about a great many things. I'm afraid you will have to be more specific."

The man clenched his teeth.

"Tell me what you know about the crime scene." He replied with some annoyance.

"Once again, I have been to a great many crime scenes, so you will have to be more specific."

The young man glared at the bound detective. He was being made to feel like an idiot and he didn't like it. After a brief pause, he threw forward his right fist, hitting Sherlock hard on his already bruised cheek bone. Sherlock did not even blink.

"You're still going to have to be more specific."

This did nothing to improve the young man's temper and he paced angrily in front of the confined man.

"The one you were at five hours ago!"

"Oh that one, what about it?"

That comment earned him another fist to the face, to which he once again made no reaction. At that point the two men entered a glaring contest, which ended a short time later with a frustrated yell by the kidnapper.

"Well?!"

"Well what?"

"What do you know about it?!"

"What do I know about what?" Sherlock had asked, calmly.

The man took in a long pained breath, while clenching both his fists and teeth. He mentally counted to three before he continued.

"You like being a smart ass don't you? Do you like getting your face bashed in as well? Or how about your ribs broken?" He asked dangerously, before firing off a quick round of punches to Sherlock's upper chest. This had caught him off guard, as he was expecting and had prepared himself, for a third blow to the face. While the punches had not been particularly hard, they had served as a warning of what was to come if he kept up the ridiculous charade. His interrogator straightened his back, took a deep calming breath and tried again.

"What can you tell me about the crime scene you were just at? The one at the hotel."

"What makes you think I know anything?"

"Oh we know all about you Mr Holmes. A Consulting Detective who can see anything and everything with a simple glance. You know something."

"Well I hate to break it to you, but I was not at the crime scene for very long before you attacked and abducted the three of us."

"That maybe so, but from what I understand that would have been plenty of time for you to gather plenty of information about the case."

Sherlock had felt a pang in his chest. Although he had suspected it from the beginning, his concerns over the whereabouts of John and Lestrade had in that moment been confirmed. People don't like telling you things, but they love to contradict you and this young man had failed to do so. Sherlock was now certain that both John and Lestrade were somewhere close by, probably in this very building, receiving a similar treatment. Neither probably aware, of the other's situation. He could only hope that they would not remain separated for long. For the first time in his life, Sherlock hoped that his brother's meddling would pay off and that a rescue party would not be far away. It was a childish notion but one he clung to anyway.

"So what's it going be Mr Holmes? Are you going to start cooperating, or do I need to break your nose?" He asked, rubbing at the knuckles on his right hand.

"Actually, neither of those choices seem particularly appealing at the moment, is there a third option?"

The man simply glared and bared his teeth.

The blow that followed had not been a surprise.


	6. Chapter 6

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

While investigating a seemingly ordinary crime scene, our heroes find themselves in a less than ideal situation.

Warnings for violence and torture (Rated T for now, but it may change)

Disclaimer:

I do not own Sherlock. It all belongs to the BBC and the magnificent Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The original Sherlock Holmes is of course a creation of the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All credit must go to them for the characters. Even though they don't belong to me, I still like to take them out and play with them once in a while… problem is, I don't always play nice…

Authors Notes:

Thanks to It's-Somebody, Catie501, iccle fairy and in particular to TheOneYouCameBackFor, for your kind reviews and comments. I was really nervous about that last chapter and your reviews spurred me on a lot. I actually went on a bit of a writing frenzy after reading the last comment and now have another 2 chapters written up in draft form! :D

This chapter is up a little earlier than usual because I have to go away for a few days over the weekend and won't get the chance to do it at my usual time. I hope you enjoy it! Let me know what you think. Reviews do in fact make me write faster. It's been scientifically proven now.

* * *

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

- Chapter Six -

* * *

After close to half an hour of questioning, the younger man was still no closer to finding out any real information. While Sherlock was at least answering some his questions now, he was in no way being helpful. Some of his answers he would go into great detail, while at other times he would be very elusive and cryptic with the information he provided. The common factor in all of his responses were the snide, sarcastic comments he felt the need to add. This usually caused his interrogator to retaliate with a blow to the chest or face, particularly if he rolled his eyes or laughed at 'the stupidity of the question'. As a result, Sherlock's chest was now littered with bruises and his face sported a number of new marks.

The man in charge of his questioning appeared to be getting extremely aggravated by the lack of information he was receiving. Although Sherlock was indeed giving him the occasional fact, he got the strange impression that somehow, the bound man was learning just as much from the interrogation as he was. On two separate occasions, he thought he had finally made a breakthrough, getting Holmes to reveal a vital clue, only to have the man suddenly become infuriatingly vague and obnoxious. Unknown to his captor, Sherlock was in fact filtering what information he shared based on the man's reactions and enthusiasm towards specific topics. If it wasn't such a dangerous situation they were in, it would have been entertaining to watch the man get so worked up.

* * *

It hadn't taken Lestrade very long before he made a slight change to his action plan. After staying silent for only a few minutes, he realised that in order to keep himself in once piece he would have to start talking after all.

The first cut had been to his right forearm, still pulled behind his back. It was a shock at first, some small part of him wasn't really expecting it to happen. Greg couldn't see the damage that was being done, but he could feel the sharp sting and the warm liquid dribble towards the floor. The cuts felt quite shallow at first, but as time went on, they got deeper and longer. Without any warning, the blade suddenly entered his arm with great force, causing Greg to cry out in both pain and shock. He looked up into the face of the man in front of him and noticed his disturbing grin. More shockingly though, was his empty hands. The sharp pain, informed him that the blade was still there, impeded deep in his forearm. It was around that time, that he had decided to change tactics - He would talk. In fact he would be the ideal prisoner, telling his captor everything and anything in minute detail, down to the colour of the wallpaper and how the victims had tied their shoes. He would be frustratingly cooperative and buy his time that way.

"Alright! Alright you win. What do you want to know? Where should I start?" He gasped out.

"Start with the two victims, who were they?"

"Ok then… The first victim was found just inside the hotel room with a gunshot wound to the abdomen…"

He would do what he had to; he just hoped that it wouldn't compromise the case too much by sharing the details. If he was being honest with himself however, that thought was becoming less of a priority with each passing moment. The situation was getting serious now, and if he didn't play his cards right, things were going to end very badly for him.

* * *

Sherlock had worked out pretty early on, that his captor wasn't very experienced in interrogation techniques. It was far too easy to get inside the young man's head and Sherlock was quietly happy with the amount of information he had gathered from him. He thought he had been quite subtle at first, only asking the occasional question or two, but he suspected that the man had finally caught on to what he was doing. The last three questions he'd asked, had resulted in punches to the face, his jaw was aching quite badly now as a result. He was just at the receiving end of such a blow, when he heard a ringing noise. The man in front of him immediately straightened then removed a phone from his pocket, fumbling to answering.

"Sir?"

He was putting on a good act, but Sherlock could tell that he was nervous.

"Ok. I'll find out."

As the man lowered the phone, he turned to Sherlock and asked forcefully "where's the note?"

Without missing a beat, Sherlock innocently responded "what note?"

"Don't start that again! The note found on the first body!"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

This resulted in a backhanded slap across the cheek.

"Don't even bother. We know all about it. So are you going to tell me where it is, or do we need to go beat it out of your friend in there?"

"So they are here? You're not even trying to hide it?"

"Why bother? You figured it out ages ago."

"Interesting."  
"What?"

"Maybe you're not as stupid as I thought you were."

It took less than a second for him to realise that he'd probably gone too far with that last comment. His vision started to blur as the room swam in and out of focus. That last blow had been hard.

"It doesn't matter anyway. Franky's in there now with your copper friend. Ten quid, he'll have the information in the next five minutes. He's particularly fond of his job, Frank - he takes it very seriously.

Sherlock for the first time in nearly an hour had nothing to say. He plastered a blank look on his face and sat quietly, not making a sound. The young man smiled. For the first time, he was finally one up on the detective and he was enjoying it immensely.

* * *

It became evident after a while that his captor's interests lay with the first victim. It appeared that Sherlock was right when he said that he wasn't who he appeared to be. From the information that Greg could pick up, it looked like as though he was in fact an undercover Police Officer. For what reason he was at the hotel though, Lestrade had no idea.

Frank also appeared to be fishing for information about witnesses. Once again, Sherlock's words about a third person at the crime scene came back to him. It was all becoming too much. He got the impression that everyone knew more than him, and yet Frank insisted on asking him questions he didn't know the answers to.

The knife was still sticking out of his forearm, causing a dull throbbing sensation to run down the length of his arm. Lestrade had managed to please his interrogator enough to avoid any further damage being inflicted but this all changed when Frank received a phone call and he started asking about the note again.

"I already told you, I don't know anything about a note."

He could picture himself putting the small evidence bag with the note, inside the upper, right hand inner pocket of his coat. He still had no idea what it meant, but he got the distinct feeling that it was important, and he was not willing to give up that piece of information just yet.

"Don't even try to deny it. Do you want me to give you a matching hole in your other arm? We know there was a note and we know that you had it, so where is it now?"

Lestrade stayed silent, the comment had made his stomach turn. How did they know about the note? The way he saw it, there were only two possibilities. Either word had got back to the station and there was a mole in the force, feeding them information; or more disturbingly, the kidnappers also had John or Sherlock, or possibly even both. Neither option sat particularly well with him.

"Ok have it your way."

Frank, took hold of the knife and gave it a violent shake, causing Lestrade to yell.

"This is going to keep happening until you tell me what I want to know! Where is the note?!"

Reluctantly, Greg nodded down to his coat.

"Check here… top, inner pocket." He managed to gasp.

Frank took no time manhandling the small piece of paper out of his pocket. How it had been missed when the Inspector was originally searched he didn't know. He looked on as the man read the small note, a look of confusion crossing his face.

"What does it mean?" Frank asked quietly, clearly puzzled.

"I don't know."

"What does it mean?!"

"I don't know! Look at it! You tell me what it means!"

Frank looked once again at the note, then back up to the Inspector before turning towards the door.

"This isn't over pig, I'll be back." He called out over his shoulder as the door closed behind him, leaving Lestrade with nothing but his thoughts and the ever present dripping sound.

* * *

No fists had been thrown in the time since Sherlock had ceased talking; in fact nothing had happened at all. It seemed as if the young man was enjoying having the upper hand for once. He had positioned himself against one of the side walls and simply watched him with a smug look on his face. It was clear from his body language that he thought he would have the information from Lestrade sooner rather than later. After four and a half minutes of silence, both men were slightly startled by the sound of the heavy door opening. His interrogator stood up once more and walked up to greet the second man who had just entered the room. He was approximately 35 years old, quite tall with greasy black hair, tattooed arms, with at least two teeth missing. This man _did_ look like a professional.

After a short exchange of words, the second man, (who he guessed was Lestrade's interrogator, Frank) quietly handed the younger man a familiar piece of paper then stood back, presumably to enjoy the show.

"Look what I've got." He turned to look at his prisoner, the small blood stained note in his hand. "Told you it would be less than five minutes." He said with a grin "So there was no note then huh?"

"Well, what do you know, it would appear that I was mistaken." Replied Sherlock calmly.

"No kidding! What can you tell me about it?"

"It's a torn section of paper, most likely from a standard A6 spiral bound notepad. Poor paper quality, could have originated from just about anywhere. Blood stains on the paper, including the torn edge could suggest that the note was in close proximity or possibly even handled by someone who was bleeding. The ink…"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, ok smart ass. What does is say?" The older thug interrupted.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows with a slight look of surprise before looking back at the small note being held up in front of him.

"It says 'TL Esc…"

He was silenced by another blow to the face.

"We're not idiots, we can read! What does it mean?!"

"Apparently it means that you can't read basic code."

The next blow opened a gash to his already swollen eye.

"You just can't help yourself can you?! You are really starting to try my patience. If you don't start giving me straight answers you're going to really regret it! Do you know… what it means… or not?

"No"

"I don't believe you."

Sherlock didn't respond.

"I don't believe that for one second. I think you know exactly what it means. In fact I think you know a lot more than what you have been letting on."

The room went quiet once more as the two men watched the oddly composed man in front of them. The silence was finally broken several minutes later by the voice of the second man.

"Looks like you have your work cut for you Jatz. I really wish I could stay and watch, but I have a few things of my own to do. Have fun, oh and if he needs some more 'encouragement', I'll leave a few new toys just outside the door for you to have a play with."

With that, the second man turned and exited, leaving the two of them alone once more.

"So... Mr Holmes… This is how it's going to work. You are going to start giving me some proper answers, or I am going to open that door and start getting more creative. Do you understand?"

Sherlock looked at the man in front of him for a second, before fixing his gaze on an unknown spot on the back wall. For all intent and purposes he looked both calm and relaxed with an unreadable expression on his face. Definitely not the look, one would normally expect from someone who was getting the shit beaten out of him.

"What does the note say?"

Sherlock remained silent.

"What do you know about the true identity of the first victim?"

Once again Sherlock did not reply, choosing instead to enter into his mind palace.

The truth was he didn't know all the facts. He was hoping that given enough time, he would be able to sort through all the information he had, to come up with a clearer picture. He was so engrossed with the puzzle at hand, that he didn't notice being asked the next question. Unfortunately the same could not be said for the punch that followed it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

While investigating a seemingly ordinary crime scene, our heroes find themselves in a less than ideal situation.

Warnings for violence and torture (Rated T for now, but it may change)

Disclaimer:

I do not own Sherlock. It all belongs to the BBC and the magnificent Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The original Sherlock Holmes is of course a creation of the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All credit must go to them for the characters. Even though they don't belong to me, I still like to take them out and play with them once in a while… problem is, I don't always play nice…

Authors Notes:

I realised that I stuffed up the whole timeline thing (again), so I'll try to explain now. It's in regards to the very first paragraph of the story. Try to think of it as a 'flash into the future'. By the end of this chapter, we will be back at that scene and the entire story will move forward on the same linear timeline. Hope you like it, let me know what you think!

* * *

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

- Chapter Seven -

* * *

**2 Hours Earlier**

Sally had absolutely no idea who John and Sherlock's family were. Did they even have a family? She couldn't remember either of them ever mentioning any one; not that it was generally something that popped up in usual crime scene conversation. She decided that since she had nothing to go on, John's family would be the easier of the two to track down. Being ex-military, a lot of his personal information, including next of kin contacts, would be recorded in his file and be on the government database. It turned out, her suspicions were correct and it didn't take her long at all to track down the only remaining immediate family member of John Watson; his sister Harriet.

* * *

It was nearing 5 o'clock in the morning when Sally finally knocked on the door of the small apartment. It was still very early for most people, so it was not a surprise when it took some time before she heard the sound of someone unlocking the deadbolt. The door slowly opened and a woman with long red hair and sleepy eyes, peered annoyingly out at her.

"Hello?" The voice cracked.

"Harriet Watson?" Sally asked carefully.

"Ahhh no, I'm Clara, who are you?" The woman replied almost suspiciously.

"Detective Sergeant Donovan." Sally said, flashing her badge. "Is Harriet Watson here?"

"Oh! Um, yes she is. Is something wrong?"

"Would you mind getting her for me?"

"Yeah, yeah sure. Come in."

The door clicked shut as Clara lead the sergeant towards the small living room, turning on several lights as she went. She offered Sally a seat, before going off to fetch the woman in question. The two returned a short time later, wrapped in dressing gowns, and sat opposite her on the remaining sofa. Sally took in the nervous looking, blonde haired woman in front of her. Other than sharing a similar shade of hair, there did not appear to be much of a resemblance between her and John at all.

"Harriet Watson?"

"It's just Harry, but yeah... What's this about?"

"My name is Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan. I have worked with your brother and his friend, Sherlock Holmes on a number of different cases…"

"Oh god, what happened?" Harry asked in a panic. "Is John alright?"

She had turned very pale and looked quite sick. The two women sat in tense silence, hand in hand, waiting for an answer. As much as Sally would have loved to have given them one, she honestly had no idea whether he was alright or not.

"Earlier tonight, John and Sherlock were called in to help us on a case in central London. We are not entirely sure of what happened after that, but we do know that the two of them and the officer they went to meet have subsequently disappeared."

"Wh… what do you mean disappeared?" Harry asked, a mixture of confusion and outrage in her voice.

"It would appear that there was a fire, possibly also some sort of explosion at the location where they were last seen. When we arrived on scene, there was no sign of them and we have been unable to make contact with them ever since."

As Sally continued to explain the situation, Harry let go of Clara's hand and stormed over to a small table. There she unplugged her charging phone, flicked through her contact list, and hit the dial button. The three of them waited in complete silence. It was so quiet in fact, that Sally could hear the moment when the ringing stoped, and John's voice started.

"_This is John Watson, I'm currently unavailable…"_

Harry pulled the phone away from her ear, hit the 'end call' button and tried again with the same result. Clara eventually stood and slowly steered the distraught woman back to her seat.

"I have to ask, do you know of any place that you think John might go to if he were in trouble? Maybe a hideout? Another property? Somewhere he could lay low for a while if he had to?" Sally asked gently.  
"No, I don't think so… I don't know… The two of us don't really talk much anymore. I can't think of anywhere."

"Ok that's not a problem, just thought I would ask, just in case."

Sally reached into her jacket and pulled out a small card with her name and number clearly printed on the front. Without hesitation, she handed it to John's estranged sister.

"If you think of anything, or if you hear from him, please ring and let me know."

Harriet took the card, doing everything in her power to hold back the tears she felt threatening to fall. Sally reached out and took hold of her shaking hand.

"I know this must be difficult, but I assure you, we are doing everything in our power to find them. John works with us; he's part of the team. He's one of the family… one of our own. We will find him."

With that Harry finally broke down crying and Sally took this as her cue to leave.

"I better be getting back. I promise that if we find out anything we will let you know."

"Thank you officer." Clara said rubbing small circles into Harry's back.

"I'm just sorry I don't have any more information."  
Harry nodded silently, while Clara led the sergeant back to the entranceway.

As the door closed behind her, Sally allowed herself a small sigh of relief. She hated making those types of house calls; it was by far the worst part of her job. With that duty behind her, she focused her attention on the next task, but something told her that finding Sherlock's family would not be as easy. If the man's temperament was anything to go by, any family he did have, would most likely not be as understanding as Harriet Watson. She got the feeling that this was going to be a long day.

* * *

John had no idea how long he had been sitting there for. He'd had no contact with anyone since the Crazy Bastard had left. Even though he had no way of knowing the time, he estimated that it had to be well over an hour due to the fact that the blood from his head and nose had clotted and dried.

At first he was thankful to have finally been left alone, but as time continued to pass, he started to worry that they had forgotten about him.

His shoulder throbbed lightly in time with his heartbeat. He managed to ignore it for the most part; however he would occasionally feel a sharp pain shoot down his arm and into his fingertips.

With little else to do, he had tried to piece together what had happened to him since arriving at the hotel all those hours ago.

He could remember hearing a noise coming from the lobby and getting ready to follow Lestrade out to investigate. He could remember Sherlock telling them to wait because he had heard something. After that there was a sound of crashing glass, followed by a bright light and then… nothing. Try as he might, he had no recollection of any events between then and waking up, tied to a chair in the small, cold room. He had no idea where his friends were, or even how long he had been missing. He just hoped that someone was out looking for him and that help would arrive soon.

* * *

_Plop_

_Plop_

Lestrade had tried to block out the consistent dripping noise, but it bore into his brain like a drill. Frank had not returned yet, and while he enjoyed the break in questioning and pain, he wished he was not alone. He almost started to wish that Frank would return, if just to rid himself of the increasingly annoying sound.

_Plop_

He wondered where his captor had disappeared to and what would likely happen to him when he returned. He'd been told that he would be coming back so it was just a matter of time.

He also wondered, and not for the first time, what the hell had happened to him and how he had ended up in this mess to begin with. All the information he seeked was just out of reach, scattered around his confused mind, lost somewhere amongst the flashing images and confusing sounds. It was very frustrating.

_Plop_

_Plop_

He wished that whatever was going to happen next, would just hurry up and happen. The wait was going to kill him.

* * *

**1 Hour Earlier**

As it turns out, finding Sherlock's next of kin was not difficult in the slightest. In fact she didn't need to look for him at all. As Sally walked back to her police cruiser, a large, black vehicle slowly pulled up beside her, effectively blocking her in.

"Excuse me, you can't stay here." She yelled out to the driver, who was just getting out of the car, engine still running.

"Sergeant Donovan?"

Sally was confused, "yes."

"Please get in the car."

Now she was also slightly alarmed.

"Why?" She asked, eyes narrowing.

"My employer wishes to speak to you."

"What about?"

"The disappearance of three people from a hotel fire several hours ago."

"And who is your employer exactly?"

"Please get in the car, all will be explained."

Sally still felt uneasy about blindly jumping into the mysterious car, however realised that she was not going to get any further information until she did. Donovan took a second to quickly check in with the station, giving them her current location as well as the make and model of the back vehicle before she reluctantly walked towards the opened door. Glancing in, she noticed a dark haired man in a suit, waiting patiently for her to take a seat. The door closed behind her and a short time later, she felt the car slowly move out into the street.

"It is good to finally meet you Sergeant Donovan."

"Who are you? What is this about?"

"I have information for you in regards to the fire at the Skyridge Hotel approximately seven hours ago. As well as the subsequent disappearance of Detective Inspector Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson."

That grabbed Sally's attention.

"How do you know about that?"

"Let's just say that I make it my business to keep track on what they get up to."

"Why?"

"I have a vested interest in their ongoing wellbeing."

Sally clearly wasn't going to get a straight forward answer from this man and it frustrated her to no end.

"Right then, what can you tell me."

"I have been able to ascertain that all three men, were abducted from the hotel. They were ambushed by at least seven men and were driven away in a white 2007 Volkswagen Transporter, registration S583DVK."  
"How on earth do you know that?"

"CCTV Footage from the surrounding areas."

"How did you manage get your hands on CCTV Footage? We are still tracking it down!"  
The suited man replied with an all-knowing smile before continuing.

"We were able to track the van moving west for a number of miles before we temporarily lost it. We also managed to track the three men's mobile phones to an old abandoned warehouse in that same direction, 10 miles out of central London. They were found mostly broken, dumped amongst a pile of hard rubbish. The van was picked up once more after leaving the warehouse location, moving north-west for a time, before it was eventually lost. Of course we cannot guarantee that they were still in the van at that time and had not been transferred into a different vehicle. There are no further clues at this time as to where the men were taken."

Sally was speechless.

"I'm going to need all of that..."

The suited man put up his hand as if to silence her.

"It is all being sent to Scotland Yard as we speak. It will be there waiting, once you arrive."

Sally didn't know what to say.

"There is no need to thank me, but I would appreciate it, if you were to keep me informed on any further developments. I would also like to offer my assistance if ever you find your investigation slowed for whatever reason. I have the… ability to… fast track, certain requests and it is my wish that this case is to be solved as quickly as possible with the safe recovery of all three men."

The car slowly rolled to a stop, and the door to Sally's left opened. Clearly the conversation had come to an end.

"How will I contact you?"

"You can reach me on this number." The man replied, handing her a small card with a mobile number, written carefully on the back.

"You are only one of four people who have this number, and the other three are unlikely to call anytime soon. I trust you will keep this number to yourself."

Sally looked at the neat, précised hand writing for a moment then flipped the card to see if there was anything on the other side. It was with some amazement that she read the delicately printed name.

"Mycroft Holmes?"

"That is correct."

"Ar….are you…"

"Indeed I am."

Sally could do nothing but stare, her mouth slightly open.

"I don't wish to keep you, sergeant. It appears you have a lot of work to do."

"O..of course" Sally stuttered. She looked once again at the name on the card, then up into the man's face. Now that she thought about it, she could see the family resemblance and the personalities sure seemed to fit. As if reading Sally's mind, Mycroft gave her a small smile.

"Though frustrating as he may be at times, I am somewhat attached to my little brother. I would be devastated if anything serious were to befall him."

Donovan gave the man a quick nod then exited the vehicle, pleased to find that they had dropped her back at her car. Without saying another word, Sally got in her cruiser and watched as the black vehicle moved away and disappeared into the distance. That was by far one of the strangest encounters she had ever experienced in her life.

Turning on the ignition, she got out her phone and dialled a well-known number. As she pulled out into the early morning traffic, a familiar voice answered.

"Donovan?"

"Sir, I have just received some vital intel from Sherlock Holmes' brother about the case, it looks like they may have been kidnapped. He has CCTV, phone traces, the works."

"What?! How on earth…"

"I don't know, but it is all being sent to the station now, as we speak."

"Okay, I'll meet you there. Good work Donovan."

For the second time in less than seven hours, Sally found herself speeding through the backstreets of London. Lestrade and the others hadn't just gone missing, they had been abducted and time was of the essence.

* * *

**Present Time**

The latest blow to the head made his vision blur slightly. A gash had opened up along his right eyebrow and he did what he could to keep the blood from falling into his eye.

"TELL ME!"

He could see the man before him was fast losing patience, but he remained completely still and silent.

"You're really start'n to piss me off!"

He heard a slight scrape on the floor as his captor once again picked up the electric baton. It had become a favourite of his, after coming across it just outside the door to his room; an earlier present left by Frank. He could hear the electricity charging once more, so he did what he could to force all feelings from his mind. He had learnt earlier on that this mental absence helped dull the pain when the electricity finally hit.

His thoughts were so far away that he didn't even notice the heavy door open and the second man walk in.

"Getting anywhere?"

"Not a thing!"

He could hear the anger clearly in the younger man's voice and just a little bit of fear.

"He's not even talking anymore, hasn't said a single thing in over two bloody hours!"

The second man turned to him, and he finally got his first look at the new figure. Mid 30's, tall, dark hair, and he wore an expensive suit. He was obviously the one he had to thank for the situation he now found himself in.

"You don't want to talk? That's ok; we'll just have to move on to plan B."

Sherlock felt himself go numb, what was plan B? What did that mean? He vaguely registered this new man telling Jatz to give him 10 minutes and to 'have fun in the meantime'. He was too busy running various scenarios through his head, to take in the full conversation. Before he knew it, the second man had left and Jatz had turned to him, the baton in his hand now fully charged.

"Oh, I'm gonna enjoy this."

Sherlock tried to convince himself that he didn't feel the sharp bolt of electricity flow through his chest like lightning, but he couldn't deny the extreme twitches in his extremities or the blood in his mouth from the fresh bite marks on his tongue.

* * *

A/N: Wow that was my longest chapter yet! So yeah, time will now move the same for everyone. Hope it wasn't too confusing. Also Mycroft is REALLY hard to write!


	8. Chapter 8

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

While investigating a seemingly ordinary crime scene, our heroes find themselves in a less than ideal situation.

Warnings for violence and torture (Rated T for now, but it may change)

Disclaimer:

I do not own Sherlock. It all belongs to the BBC and the magnificent Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The original Sherlock Holmes is of course a creation of the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All credit must go to them for the characters. Even though they don't belong to me, I still like to take them out and play with them once in a while… problem is, I don't always play nice…

Authors Notes:

Did a lot of rewriting on this one – had trouble with figuring out points of view, hopefully I've got it right. If you think I've stuffed it up please let me know because the next 2 or so chapters will follow a similar style.

So when I first planned out this story, I wrote up 12 scenes that I could picture in my head that I wanted to include. (Yes I have planned it… mostly) Finally eight chapters in, you get to see the first of them! I hope you are all able to picture it as clearly as I can. Just a warning though, things start to get nasty after this chapter… In the meantime, I hope you like it and please review!

* * *

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

- Chapter Eight -

* * *

Lestrade had conflicted feelings when he heard the familiar creak and bang of the door. While he was glad for the distraction and the company, he was both nervous and afraid as to what they had planned for him next.

"Time we got moving pig." Frank said, stepping further into the room. He was followed by another man who also sported a number of scars and unlike Frank, was slightly shorter, a little older and had red hair.

"Where are we going?" Lestrade asked anxiously.  
"Oh you'll find out soon enough. We've got a little surprise for you." Frank said with a disturbing grin.

They un-cuffed his hands and instant relief came flooding into his aching muscles. He was dragged to his feet and pushed roughly towards the open door. He stumbled at first, his feet moved clumsily over the hard floor as he entered the corridor.

Lestrade didn't have time to think. He was too focused on moving forward and trying to stay upright to worry about anything else. It was therefore somewhat of a surprise when he found himself being dropped into another chair; this one warmer, with arm rests and a tall back. After a quick look he confirmed that it was a wooden chair, and it was a lot more comfortable than the last one. He started to wonder what that might mean. It personally seemed like an odd thing to do, but he wasn't about to start complaining.

His wrists were pushed down onto the wooden arms and he was secured by a number of leather restraints. When the two men were satisfied that the Inspector would not be going anywhere, they left without any further interaction. It was only then, that Greg took a closer look at his new surroundings. The room was quite a bit larger than the last one, but still had concrete walls and floor. Thankfully there were no signs of faulty plumbing; in fact he could hear no sounds at all. The lighting situation was also lot better and he could clearly see the other objects in the room.

The first thing he noticed were the other two chairs, identical to the one he was seated in. All three had been strategically placed in the shape of an isosceles triangle, so they were all facing towards the centre of the room. His chair was located to the right of the door, a second one sat to the left of it. The third chair had been set further apart from the others, towards the back of the room. It had been positioned close to the last and perhaps most disturbing piece of furniture – a small fold out table, with a light cloth, covering what appeared to be a number of different unknown items. This was clearly phase two of the interrogation process and it wasn't a difficult leap to figure out to whom the other chairs were intended.

Lestrade didn't have to wait long before the door opened and a bound and beaten John came stumbling in, flanked on either side by the same two men who had left only minutes earlier.

"Greg?" John asked, confused.

"Hey John... Wow you look like hell."

"What are you doing here? They told me, I was the only one…"  
"Yeah they told me the same thing. You okay?"

"Yeah, and you?"

"Fine"  
"Okay, okay enough with the talking" the red headed man growled. He spun John around and practically threw him into the next closest chair. The doctor winced ever so slightly when they started securing his arms in the restraints.

John may have said he was okay, but he sure as hell didn't look it. The man appeared pale and there seemed to be a lot of dried blood on his face, particularly around his nose and forehead. His left eye was clearly swollen and it was only when the two men left the room again, that Lestrade noticed the dark blood stain on the shoulder of his jacket.

"What did they do to you?" he asked quietly.

John studied him for a moment. "I could ask you the same question. What happened to your arm?"

Greg looked down, seeing for the first time the damage Frank's knife had inflicted.

"Probably something similar to your shoulder" he replied nonchalantly.

John nodded, looking over towards the third and last chair in the room, currently unoccupied. He hesitated for a moment, before asking in a small voice "have you seen Sherlock?"

"No" Greg sighed.

"This is bad."

No further words were needed. The two men sat in tense silence, waiting for the door to open for the third time, wondering what condition their friend would be in when he arrived.

* * *

Sherlock's entire body was on fire as the electricity coursed through his system. All his nerve endings were screaming with pain and yet the man stayed silent – only just. His body would spasm and contort uncontrollably when the electricity hit, and it would always leave him twitching and gasping for breath. It was at this point where Jatz would throw a fist towards his diaphragm, pushing whatever breath he still had left, out of his lungs. Needless to say, Sherlock's condition had deteriorated considerably in the last ten minutes. He was having trouble breathing and his mind was becoming more and more hazy. His head hurt and he seriously doubted his ability to use either of his arms or legs, they felt heavy and painful.

It was almost a relief when the door opened and two men, including 'Franky' came wandering in.

"Woah!" 'Frank' said with a laugh "you really messed him up Jatz!"

"You like it?"

"Yeah, nice work!" replied the second man with a smile. Sherlock glanced at the new figure, but other than noticing his short red hair, he couldn't absorb much more about the man's appearance. His brain was too muddled to think properly and he was in too much pain to care.

"So we're all ready in the other room! Just waitn' on you and ya friend here to join us and then we can start the party!" Exclaimed Frank excitedly. He was almost bouncing with enthusiasm, which even in Sherlock's dazed mind did not equate to anything good. Before he even realised what was happening, Jatz and Frank were pulling him out of the cold chair and dragging him towards the door. His body felt like lead, his legs were trembling and he found them hard to control. By the time they had entered into the corridor, Frank and the red headed man, each had one of his arms hooked around their shoulders, holding him upright. Though he tried to keep up and walk on his own, he found that for the most part his feat simply dragged along the ground behind them.

"Hey Rusty, where's X?"

"He's gonna meet us there kid."

The small exchange did nothing to stop the growing sense of unease he felt as they drew closer to the end room and the suited man who was standing there waiting.

* * *

John felt sick. All this time he had been under the delusion that both Sherlock and Lestrade had somehow managed to escape. He should have known better than to trust a crazy psychopath who liked to poke holes in him. Looking over at Lestrade he could clearly see that their time apart had not been a pleasant experience for either of them. It looked like he had received a number of nasty cuts and bruises. The one that concerned him the most however, was the deep gash to his right forearm. Fortunately, some of the leather restraints were acting as a type of tourniquet, restricting the blood flow to the injury; it had already stopped bleeding. If he got the chance, he would clean and bandage it for him. The last thing they needed was for one of them to get an infection in a place like this.

The eerie silence was eventually interrupted by the familiar click of the door, and both men's heads snapped around to face it. The first person to come strolling into the room was a tall man in an expensive suit. John recognised him instantly from the short time they had spent together, a couple of hours ago.

"Gentlemen" he said casually, as if welcoming them to a social gathering. He took a few steps inside the room then turned to watch as Sherlock was dragged in.

"Oh my god." Greg whispered and although he didn't vocalise it, John was thinking the very same thing.

If Lestrade looked bad, then Sherlock looked absolutely terrible. For one, he seemed unable to even stand up straight, little own walk. The two watched as Sherlock was marched between them and dumped in the remaining chair; the one which sat furthest away and closest to the mystery table.

"Sherlock, you okay?" John asked anxiously.

He did not get a response.

The detective's face was displaying a number bruises and seemed to be covered in blood. He had a large bleeding gash just above a very swollen right eye and it looked as if his nose was broken too. Every now and then, John would notice a slight tremor pass through his body, but perhaps most disturbingly of all, Sherlock appeared to be avoiding all forms of communication including eye contact.

After they had finished restraining their last captive, the two thugs walked over and stood against the back wall, where Sherlock could not see them. They were joined a short time later by a younger man, who John hadn't even noticed come in. The door closed suddenly and his attention was once again drawn to the man in the dark suit. He had slowly moved into the centre of the room and had positioned himself so he was facing not only John, but Lestrade as well.

"Greetings gentlemen, you may call me Mr X. I believe, the two of you have already met Frank and Rusty over there, then of course there's young Jatz. Now I suppose you must be wondering why you are here. Well the truth is your friend over there has not been particularly forthcoming in providing us with the information we want. In fact a few hours ago, he stopped talking all together, and quite frankly it's becoming bothersome."

Mr X walked over to stand behind Sherlock, placing both hands on the man's shoulders. The detective did not move, head still slumped towards the ground.

"We though, we would give him some extra incentive…"

John didn't like where this was headed.

"This however, is quite unfortunate for the two of you… but don't fear, if Mr Holmes is any sort of friend, it will not take him long to start giving us the information we need. Who knows, maybe in the process, the two of you may also 'remember' details you failed to mention earlier."

X turned towards the small table and removed the cloth, revealing a number of sharp and potentially dangerous looking tools. John and Lestrade looked at each other. All though they didn't speak, John could read the fear in Greg's eyes and he was certain his face held a similar look of alarm.

"Now Mr Holmes, are you going to start cooperating, or will we need to start playing with your friends?"

Sherlock slowly raised his head letting it hit the back of his chair. His face was void of all emotion and he stared blankly at the empty space between his two friends, saying nothing.

"Ouch! Some friend you must be… So who will be the lucky one who goes first then huh? The work colleague or the housemate?"

Sherlock turned his head to glare at the man, before resuming his previous position with a quiet sigh.

"Lestrade it is then." Said Mr X, motioning towards the three men standing against the back wall.

Rusty took a step forward and Greg visibly stiffened. He was projecting a brave front as the red headed man, strolled over and backhanded him across the face with a loud slap.

John looked over at his friend with concern; he didn't know what to do. He couldn't just sit there and watch Greg getting slowly tortured; he was a doctor for god sake!

He shot Sherlock a questioning look but the man had not shown any reaction to the violent movement. He had stayed perfectly still, as if frozen, looking into the void between the two of them. John reluctantly turned to back to stare at Lestrade, hoping to convey some sense of support to his friend. It didn't take long before John found it incredibly difficult to listen to the deep grunting noises which followed each new blow. He clenched his teeth and thought about the various ways in which he could kill someone with his bare hands. If they ever got out of here, he would be more than happy to test a few of them out.


	9. Chapter 9

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

While investigating a seemingly ordinary crime scene, our heroes find themselves in a less than ideal situation.

**Warnings for violence and torture*** This chapter has been rated M for excessive nastiness.

Disclaimer:

I do not own Sherlock. It all belongs to the BBC and the magnificent Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The original Sherlock Holmes is of course a creation of the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All credit must go to them for the characters. Even though they don't belong to me, I still like to take them out and play with them once in a while… problem is, I don't always play nice…

Authors Notes:

Wow what a response! Over 600 views and 10 reviews in 2 days – it blew my mind. Thanks to all of my followers and people who have left feedback and reviews, you guys rock!

So the idea of this small scene has somehow grown into this giant beast. I hope it doesn't drag on too much…

***Just a warning that I have rated this chapter M for some excessive nastiness.***

* * *

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

- Chapter Nine -

* * *

Rusty had been working on Lestrade for close to three minutes, and during this time not a single question had been asked of anyone. It seemed as though they were beating the hell out of him just to prove they could. When Rusty did finally stop, Lestrade was breathing quite heavily and his face showed a number of new imperfections.

"Feel like talking yet Mr Holmes?" Frank asked him, moving out of the shadows, cigarette in hand.

He decided not reply; in fact he made no indication that he had even heard the question.

Frank came up behind him, took a handful of hair and jerked his head backwards. With a cold, fierce expression, he stared down into his prisoner's eyes, waiting for a reaction. When he failed to receive one, the man forced Sherlock's head in the direction of the small table and the assortment of items which lay upon it.

"Look at all the different toys we brought" he said with a snarl. "Just image all the things we could do to your friends… If you don't start talking, we're gonna start playin and trust me… by the time I finished with 'em… there'll be nothing left!"

Sherlock tried not to process the scene in front of him, but couldn't help it. The table held a variety of knives and blades which varied in both shape and size. There was a length of chain, a crowbar and what looked like a range of electric tools including a taser, all laid out neatly on a cream cloth. Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on an imaginary point in the distance and tried to avoid any further sensory input. After a moment his head was jerked back again, to stare once more into his captor's angry face. Frank was looking for a reaction and Sherlock was determined not to give him one.

After a few frustrating seconds, Frank took a drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke into the detective's face, before forcefully throwing his head back down towards the ground. Sherlock slowly straightened his back and resumed his previous position, staring into space, not making a sound.

"What's it gonna take to make you start squawking huh?" Frank stormed up to Lestrade, pushing Rusty out the way. He stood just behind him, making sure both John and more importantly Sherlock, had a clear view. With his eyes completely fixed on Sherlock, Frank took hold of the Inspector's head and yanked it to the side. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and pressed it to the man's exposed neck.

Lestrade could not help the slight cry that left his mouth, and John could not help but yell at the indignity of it all. Frank was not interested in either of those things. He had his eyes set on Sherlock who continued to give him a vacant stare, which only angered the man further.

* * *

Upon arriving back at the station, Sally was confronted with a pile of files and recordings just as Mycroft Holmes had promised. To her delight, she soon discovered that not only did she have all the security footage from the immediate area, but that it had also been time coded. Every event of significance from around the time of the abduction had been separately recorded; it would save the department hours. Sally had just loaded the first of the tapes when D.I. Dimmock arrived.

"So what have we got Sergeant?"

"Good timing sir, we were just about to find out."

Sally fast-forwarded to the indicated time and pressed play.

The footage appeared to have been taken from a camera on an adjacent street to the hotel. Through the dark, they could just make out the back service door of the small building.

After a few seconds, a white Volkswagen Transporter, slowly pulled into frame and parked close to the back door. Three men exited the vehicle, all wearing dark clothes and carrying hand guns. They ran towards the front of the building and disappeared out of frame. A few moments later, four other darkly clad figures emerged from the van wearing balaclavas. They quickly equipped themselves with a number of different weapons then ran towards the back of the building where they disappeared from the camera's range. After exactly 1 minute and 53 seconds, the camera picked up a brilliant, white flash which distorted the image for a short time.

"What the hell was that?" Someone asked from over their shoulder. It appeared as if they had gathered a bit of an audience. A number of officers had crowded around the small screen, hoping to be the one who would notice a key piece of evidence.

"Looks like it could be some sort of flash grenade." Sally muttered to the D.I.

"That would fit. The fire department said there had been no evidence of an explosion, despite witness accounts saying there was. That didn't look like a normal explosion either; it's the wrong colour and there's no damage. I'd say that's a fairly good assumption."

For a long time, it appeared as if nothing was happening. Sally looked down at the list of timestamps and heard a mutter of voices all around her. Looking backup at the monitor, she saw what had caused the sudden commotion. Suspended between two of the darkly dressed men, was a clearly unconscious D.I. Lestrade. His head had fallen towards the ground, obscuring his face, but everyone in the room knew who it was. As the group of three reached the van, the back door popped open and a black bag was forced over the unconscious man's face before he disappeared into the back of the vehicle. The whole process was repeated a further two times, as John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were also taken from the scene. With the three men secured, and all the kidnappers accounted for, the van drove out of view.

The room had gone very silent as each person processed this information in their own way. The three men had indeed been taken and all three had been unconscious at the time. There was no way of knowing what condition they were in.

"Right, listen up everybody!" Dimmock yelled, walking out of the small office and addressing the entire station. "I want as many people as possible working on the Skyridge case. We have an officer and two consulting civilians who have been abducted from the scene. Pass off what you can to other departments, from now on this is our top priority!" With that, the station was humming with movement and whispered conversations, as officers tried to make arrangements to clear up their schedules.

In the meantime Sally had been staring blankly at the computer screen and had just noticed an odd mist move into view.

"Sir? Take a look at this. I think those men must have started the fire when the exited the building."

"I thought as much, which means that this entire thing is a cover up. I just don't understand why they felt the need to kidnap three people in the process. Why not the other officers too?"

"Maybe they recognised Sherlock from the papers? He's made quite a reputation for himself lately."

"Who knows. We'll need to go over the rest of these tapes, see if we can find out where they were taken, try and get an ID off the van."

"Sir, my source told me that the footage shows the van moving west but that it was eventually lost. I have no reason to question this information. I think our time would be better suited elsewhere. The men's phones were tracked to an abandoned warehouse, we need to get someone to check it out."

"Okay, I'll have Peterson and O'Riley follow that up, see if they can find out anything else. I'll still get a couple of guys from tech to finish going through these tapes, just to verify what we already have. In the meantime we need to try and figure out what originally went on in that room, clearly we are missing something. The key will be identifying the victims, but until then, it would be a good idea to try and piece together what the scene looked like before it was destroyed. I want you to head back to the hospital and get statements from the two officers, find out what they remember of the original crime scene. I am going to track down the other officers who responded to the original 999 call. Hopefully we can start to piece things together that way."

* * *

"Who was victim number one?" Frank asked Sherlock once again, as he held the taser out towards Lestrade's chest. The Inspector had already been shocked a number of times and he looked to be in bad shape. He had already been subjected to a vicious beating and had received over a dozen different sized burns all over his arms and neck. The bright red dots stood out amongst the numerous cuts he had already sustained.

"We've already told you! His name was Tony Roberts! He was a software designer from Leeds! That was the only ID he had on him!"

John had been yelling at Frank for some time now, trying to get him the man to stop, but he was not interested – they had heard it all before. His sole interest lay in Sherlock who despite the sounds of screaming, was yet to contribute to the ongoing questioning.

"Well?!" Frank yelled, getting more agitated.

Sherlock casually looked up and the two men's eyes met. Frank watched the man closely as he jammed the tip of the taser into Greg's stomach, causing 50,000 volts of electricity to pass through the man's frame. John watched in horror as every muscle in his friend's body seized up, making him unable to do anything but emit a pained groan. After what seemed like an eternity, the electrical current finally stopped, leaving Lestrade sagging in his chair as he tried to catch his breath.

John watched as Sherlock followed the movement with his eyes. Without a word, he once again met Frank's gaze and sighed quietly.

In an act of frustration, Frank grabbed the little finger on Lestrade's right hand and violently twisted, until the man was screaming and the digit stuck out at an almost 90 degree angle. John went back to screaming obscenities as Sherlock continued to watch silently.

"Was there evidence of another person at the crime scene?" Frank asked again with a snarl. This appeared to be one of their favourite lines of questioning, along with the meaning of the note. It was becoming clear, that it was one of a few things they were really interested in. They continued to ask the same questions over and over again and Sherlock continued to be uncooperative with supplying any answers.

Frank leaned in, took a strong grip of Lestrade's ring finger and slowly twisted. Greg's face contorted with pain, but this time he was able to hold in the majority of his scream.

His pained eye's searched first for Sherlock and then John, as he silently pleaded for their help. Frank took a firm hold of Greg's middle finger, while the man scrunched up his face in preparation.

The whole situation had become too much for John and he couldn't take it anymore.

"Yes! Yes there was!"

Frank froze and turned to the doctor "come again?"

"Yes there were signs of a third person."

Suddenly the whole mood of the room changed as the four kidnappers became very interested in what he was saying. Lestrade slumped in relief as his finger was dropped and Frank moved away.

"Was there a third person there when you arrived?" Mr X asked quietly from somewhere behind him.

"No."

"But someone else had been there?"

"I… I think so."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Frank asked angrily.

John didn't know how to respond. He could remember Sherlock, spouting off a long list of how he knew that there had been a third person there at some stage, but he could not really remember the specifics. He looked over at his detective friend for assistance, but received a blank expression in return. He looked carefully into the man's eyes, searching for any hidden messages that Sherlock may have been trying to communicate. He soon felt his heart sink however, when he realised that there wasn't.

"So the man with all the answers is still not going to talk? I find it interesting that no one has mentioned this before now. I think Rusty, it is time to up the stakes." X announced, moving back into the centre of the room.

John could not help but notice the way Lestrade's entire body stiffened.

"See I wonder Mr Holmes, what else we could be doing to convince you to talk? I thought it would have been painfully obvious by now that we WILL get the information out of you. The only real question, is how? It would appear that your work colleague is merely that. Surely you would hold some fondness for the good doctor though. The two of you do share a flat after all."

John felt his stomach drop.

"I did some research on you, Doctor Watson." X said, looking over his shoulder at him. "Formally of the Fifth Northumberland Fusilier's; was invalided home from Afghanistan after receiving a gunshot wound to the left shoulder. Have you ever been shot Mr Holmes?" X asked suddenly, turning back to look at the detective. Sherlock stared at him vacantly but said nothing.

"I have. Three years ago, I was hit in my left calf. It wasn't anything serious, more of deep gash really, but I tell you what, that was a level of pain I had never experienced before. The feeling of hot metal, passing through your body… Well, you know what I mean, don't you Doctor?"

A new feeling of dread washed over him as he watched X make his way over to the table. John could not be sure, but he thought he saw Sherlock flinch sightly in reaction to whatever item the man had just picked up.

"I have always been curious as to what it would feel like to be shot in slow motion" X continued. "To feel a piece of hot lead slowly bore its way through layers of skin and bone…"

Lestrade had apparently recovered some of his composure and had looked up at the last comment. The room had gone unbelievably quiet.

"Unfortunately, I have been thus far unable to slow down time, nor invent a slow firing gun however, I have thought up an alternative, which I believe will be somewhat similar…"

John's face instantly paled, as X held up the wireless drill. He shot Sherlock a look of panic before he was able to pull himself together.

He was a soldier after all, he had been trained for situations like this… well not exactly like this… oh who was he kidding? He had done a three day training course in his final year at the academy. He was a doctor, not a spy!

Mr X was fiddling around with different drill attachments, before deciding on one that he liked - Medium length and about 5mm thick. He made his way over to him, securing the drill bit in place as he went. John could feel his heart pounding a million miles an hour as he tried his best not to panic.

"Now doctor, I believe Rusty has already been having a poke around your old war wound, not too much I trust?"

He remained silent, trying to mentally prepare himself for what was about to come.

"I always considered myself a handy man… hold him."

Frank moved to secure his right side, while Rusty took hold of the already injured left shoulder. They tore the front of his shirt and jacket open, revealing the painful looking knife wound he received earlier. John sat up straight, fixed his eyes on an empty spot in front of him and raised his chin. Even tied to a chair and facing torture, he tried to emit the strong front of a soldier. How long he could hold this pose however, would soon be determined.

The drill started and John could feel the two men's grips tighten on his upper arms and torso. He tried not to watch as the drill moved closer and closer to his exposed flesh. He could vaguely hear a panicked scream coming from somewhere nearby and it took him a moment to realise who it was and what they were saying.

"You don't need to do this! Put it down! He's told you everything he knows!" Lestrade continued to yell at the three men, his voice sounding more and more strained.

John found controlling his breathing more difficult, as X slowly and dramatically moved the drill towards his shoulder. Just as he thought he felt the tiniest pressure, it would disappear again and the drill would move away. They were teasing him and that alone was torture in itself.

This continued for about a minute, before the drill stopped and X turned to give Sherlock one final chance.

"Come on Mr Holmes, you know that I will follow through with this. Just tell me what I want to know and it can all stop. John here can keep his arm in once piece and you can see to it that the Inspector gets his fingers fixed. I'll even have the boys drop you off near a medical facility, how about that? All you have to do, is tell me what it is, you're hiding. What do you know about the third person at the hotel and what do you know about the note? That is really all I want to know, after that I'll let you go."

John could see Sherlock roll his eyes; he clearly didn't believe what X was saying anymore than he did. For the first time in a long time, Sherlock spoke.

"I don't care what you do to them; I have said everything I intend to say on the matter."

Everyone in the room looked towards Sherlock in varying levels of suprise, none more so than John and Greg who were not only shocked, but felt hurt and betrayed by the man's words. Surely he couldn't have really meant it.

"So be it."

X placed the tip of the drill into the already wounded shoulder and slowly pressed the lever. John's breathing and heart rate jumped as he heard the tool whirl into life. He clenched his teeth and his fists as he felt the drill piece start to slowly rotate into his skin.


	10. Chapter 10

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

While investigating a seemingly ordinary crime scene, our heroes find themselves in a less than ideal situation.

**Warnings for violence and torture*** This chapter has been rated M for excessive nastiness.

Disclaimer:

I do not own Sherlock. It all belongs to the BBC and the magnificent Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The original Sherlock Holmes is of course a creation of the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All credit must go to them for the characters. Even though they don't belong to me, I still like to take them out and play with them once in a while… problem is, I don't always play nice…

Authors Notes:

I actually think people are going hate me after this… This chapter is rated M for excessive violence.

* * *

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

- Chapter Ten -

* * *

Lestrade looked on, with a feeling of both extreme relief and guilt, as the tip of the drill piece disappeared into his friends shoulder. John had tried to hold back his screams for as long as he could. It felt like minutes but in reality it was mere seconds, before the soldier lost all composure and started violently trying to twist away from the drill, yelling louder the deeper it went. The sound sent a shiver down Greg's spine. The combination of the whining tool as well as the anguished cries of his friend, made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

Unlike before, when they were using the sound of the tool to intimidate him, X did not have his finger hard pressed on the trigger. Rather than have the drill bore quickly through the man's arm, he was doing his best to make sure the experience was as slow and painful for the doctor as possible.

It became quite obvious when X finally reached John's scapular. The drill started to struggle with the denser material and John's screams became even louder. In all of his years on the force, he had heard many people scream for many different reasons. Screams of rage and of grief; screams of horror as well as pain; but never had he heard something as disturbing as this. John's voice was straining and his whole body shook with the effort. Greg felt like his very soul was being torn in half and he couldn't do a thing about it.

"STOP IT!" He roared at the three men surrounding his friend. "SHERLOCK, DO SOMETHING!"

He was beside himself, trying to tear free of his restraints. The leather dug deeper into his skin as he continued to pull against the ties which held him to the chair. He looked over at Sherlock and noticed that the man had still failed to show any outward signs of emotion to the scene taking place in front of him. Greg's gaze turned to one of pure rage. He didn't understand how the man could just sit there and do nothing, while his friend was being tortured.

Without warning, X made a low growling sound and removed the drill piece from John's shoulder.

"Damn thing's not long enough, I can't get through the bone." He quietly muttered to the room.

"I wonder if there's a longer one…" he continued, a little louder and almost casually. He strolled calmly back to the table by Sherlock's side, presumably to hunt for more pieces.

John looked terrible. His head fell backwards, hitting the headrest as he slowly opened his eyes. Silent tears rolled down his face and his whole body trembled. He was breathing quite heavily and he looked to have paled significantly. His concern for his friend grew as he watched the man repeatedly bang his head against the back of his chair.

"John?" He asked quietly, but he didn't receive a response.

* * *

Getting shot in Afghanistan had been bad enough, but at least it had been quick. After the bullet first struck him, adrenaline had masked some of the initial pain. His body had later gone into shock and the same thing happened. Then of course there was the pure bliss of the morphine shot and the oblivion which came with unconsciousness. Unfortunately he was getting none of that now and it was pure torture. He could feel the agonising pain as the drill was slowly forced deeper and deeper into his body. He tried to push away, to break free of the hands holding him, but the pressure was too great; the pain too debilitating. He vaguely registered a horrifying scream echo around his head, but it scared him, so he tried to ignore it.

John could feel the precise moment when the tool reached the bone. The pressure in his arm increased and the nerve fibres in his arm exploded in such an intense way, he started to see black dots in his vision. He prayed for it to end, to either pass out or die. It was only when he went to scream that he realised it was his own voice he could hear echoing around the room. This terrified him even more. The noise was so loud, it sounded like he was dying… maybe he was.

The pressure and the speed of the drill suddenly increased as it was violently pushed further into his arm. Then just as quickly as the pressure had started, it disappeared and the drill was removed all together.

He felt himself flop backwards on his chair, noticing for the first time that his eyes were closed. He could feel alien hands on his upper body, holding him tightly in place and he wondered what he had done to warrant such a punishment. When John opened his eyes, he was met with a confusing image - Sherlock Holmes tied to a chair, quietly watching him. It only took him a second to remember where he was and at that point he wished he hadn't. He lifted his head slightly, then let it drop backwards against the chair, repeating the action over and over again in an effort to take his mind off the fire in his shoulder.

John could see X standing just to the side of Sherlock, rummaging around for something on the table. He didn't know why he had stopped, or what he was doing; hell he couldn't even remember him walking away. Perhaps Sherlock had finally said something, or maybe they had given up. Surely he had suffered enough for one day.

"I think I've found one guys!" said an overly excited voice.

John's stomach dropped for the second time, as he watched X made his way back across the room, making the needed adjustments to the hand held tool. It was all making sense now; the reason why they had stopped - the drill piece wasn't long enough and he wanted to get all the way through.

This alarmed John in more than one way. As it stood at the moment, his shoulder would be in a bad way; but from a medical stand point, it was somewhat manageable. If the hole were to go all the way through his arm, that had the potential to cause many more problems; particularly in terms of maintaining blood volume and preventing infection. He watched the drill move back towards him and felt his breathing increase as his fear started to take over.

"Sherlock..." he croaked out through his raw throat, pleading with his friend to intervene. If Sherlock hadn't said anything yet, he was sure it was for a good reason. Having said that, he didn't think he would be able to withstand another round with the drill, either physically or mentally.

All the heads in the room turned to look at the stoic detective, who continued to stare silently.

"Still nothing?" X asked with some surprise. When he received no answer, he turned back to John with a shrug. "Sorry doctor, he doesn't seem interested."

X tested the drill a number of times, watching the tip rotate.

"Sherlock… please…" John called out, louder this time.

Sherlock met his gaze for a moment, and for the first time, John could see the hurt in the man's eyes. Once again he searched for a message, but the only one he could find offered little comfort. It simply said _'sorry'_.

With a sigh, Sherlock broke the contact and looked down towards the ground and John felt the little composure he had, start to crumble.

* * *

"Sherlock… please…" the small voice pleaded. He looked and sounded absolutely terrified and Lestrade was finding it incredibly hard not to interrupt. He had to remind himself that if anyone could get through to the man it would be John. The two shared a brief glance before Sherlock looked towards the floor, causing a wave of panic to pass over the doctor's face. Lestrade couldn't believe it. Surely the meaning of a few letters on a piece of paper wasn't worth all of this.

X had started up the drill again, this time on full power. As he drew closer to John, the man started to sob, making only a slight effort to break free.

"SHERLOCK!" Lestrade yelled at him. He still didn't say anything, but at least he wasn't staring at the floor anymore.

Desperately, he turned back to the three men.

"STOP IT! LEAVE HIM ALONE! HE DOESN'T KNOW ANYTHING! SHERLOCK DO SOMETHING!"

As loud as he was, no one was listening to Greg's anguished shouts. He had already told them everything he knew about the case, but it still was not enough. It was clear that the only one who could stop them was Sherlock and he was still refusing to talk.

Once again, X plunged the tool deep into John's shoulder. A long agonizing scream echoed through the room, as the drill piece finally passed through the shoulder blade and back out through the skin, completing the narrow hole.

The drill was cruelly moved back and forward a number of times before John thankfully passed out. It was only then, that the drill bit was finally removed from his shoulder and John's limp body slumped forward. Behind him on the chair's backrest, a small hole could be seen from where the drill had burst back through the skin and into the timber. Blood was flowing freely on both sides of John's body and it would not take long before the man went into shock.

* * *

Back at the hospital, Sally returned to the small, private room of Constable Raimes. It was quite early in the morning, so the officer was quite understandably still asleep. Feeling slightly guilty, Sally took the seat next to the bed and reached a hand out to touch the young man's arm, calling his name softly as she did. It only took a second for the officer's eyes to crack open and glance around, momentarily lost.

"Sorry to disturb you Constable, do you remember who I am?"

"Of course" he replied, still half asleep; "Sergeant Donovan".

Sally gave the man a warm smile before continuing.

"Listen, I'm sorry to do this so early, but I need to find out what you can remember about the crime scene before it was destroyed. You said that you and your partner were the first responders to the 999 call?"

"Yes ma'am… umm…"

"Take your time."

"There were two men. Both had been shot; one in the head, the other in the stomach. It looked to me as if they had shot each other, but I only saw one gun."

"Any other information you can give me on the victims? perhaps a description?"

"The one who had been shot in the head looked quite young. He was wearing a hoodie and loose pants; he kind of reminded me of my younger brother... I didn't pay a lot of attention to the other guy if I'm honest. I was more concerned about securing the area."

"I understand" Sally replied slightly disappointed, recording what she could in a small note book. "If I gave you a piece of paper do you think you could draw what you remember of the layout of the scene and where the two bodies were located?"

"I could try, but like I said before ma'am, you'd be better off talking to Collins about this. He's been on the job longer than me, and he wants to become a detective one day. He's always taking notes and trying to figure things out. He was the one who asked to stick around so he could have a better look, even talked to Lestrade about the crime scene for a bit too. He's the one you want to talk to."

As the Constable got to work, drawing what he could remember of the hotel room, Sally quickly filled him in on what they had discovered from the CCTV footage. The young man like the rest of the officers involved, seemed quite upset by the new developments and wished he could do more to help. Although the amount of information Raimes was able to provide was quite basic, Sally left the room still hopeful. They had more information on the case now, than they did half an hour ago, and she was on her way see Sergeant Collins. She just hoped that he would awaken soon and that he would be able to shed some more light on their problem.

* * *

Lestrade was thrown into a whirlwind of emotions. He was angry at the men who had caused such suffering and was furious at Sherlock for allowing it to happen. He was upset by the betrayal and sick to the stomach at the bloody wound on his friend's body. He was worried and scared about what would happen next but most of all; he was concerned for the welfare of the unconscious man to his left. John had not deserved that. He was a doctor and a good man.

He wanted to call out to him. Make him open his eyes, prove to him that he was okay, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. More than anything, it would have been selfish. At least while he was out of it, John would not feel the pain of the injury or the betrayal.

"Jatz get the bag" X called over to the youngest of the crew.

Lestrade had completely forgotten about the young man still standing against the back wall. He had not yet participated in the group torture session but it looked like that was about to change. He moved to Sherlock's side and picked up a plastic bag off the table. The detective's eye's watched him closely as he walked towards the small group surrounding the unconscious doctor and tried to hand the bag to the man in charge.

"No, it's your turn now kiddo. Make sure they can both see." He said quietly, pushing the bag back towards the younger man. Jatz looked down at the object in his hand then nodded slightly, moving around as not to obscure anyone's vision. Frank and Rusty both patted the younger man on the shoulder then moved off to the side. Greg felt his heart race; this was starting to look like some sort of initiation. Jatz was the one responsible for Sherlock's busted face, so clearly torture was not new to him; so what did that mean for John?

His worst fears were answered a moment later, as he watched the man place the plastic bag over his friends head. X smiled and gave the youngster a small pat on the back, then pushed forward to address Sherlock for the last time.

"The game is over now, this is it. You start cooperating or your friend will die."

John's head was partially obscured through the bag, but he still appeared to be unconscious. His breathing was shallow but the plastic continued to move closer to his face. It would not be long before the air in the confined space would be gone and the man would start to suffocate.

"Sherlock for God's sake, just tell them something, anything!" Lestrade had just watched them drill a hole in John's shoulder; he couldn't watch him slowly die too. "Whatever it is, it's not worth John's life!"

Sherlock looked over at Lestrade and shot him a dirty look.

"I hardly think you are in a position to make that decision for me Lestrade. You don't know how much value I place on John Watson's life."

Lestrade was actually surprised by the response; some part of him was not really expecting one.

"And what's that supposed to mean? He's your best friend!" he replied angrily.

"He was my housemate" Sherlock replied with a shrug.

"What do you mean was?"

"Is… not for much longer though by the looks of it…" Lestrade was absolutely dumbstruck. He looked back over to the source of their conversation and noticed that John was now awake. He moved pathetically, trying to shake free the bag from his head. His breathes were coming faster as his mind reacted to the new situation he found himself in.

"You disgust me!" Lestrade yelled back at the detective "Anderson was right you don't care about anyone but yourself and you never have! I can't believe even for one second, that I thought you were a decent man! You're no better than this lot! If we ever get out of this, I swear on my mother's grave that you will never work a case again!"

"Well that's very ambitious of you" Sherlock muttered.

"Mark my word Sherlock Holmes! You don't deserve someone like him. He would have taken a bullet for you! Are you really just going to sit here and watch him suffocate?!"

"I'm not a monster Lestrade. I would get up and take the bag off his head if I could, but I'm currently tied up with other things at the moment." This did nothing to improve the Inspector's mood.

"This is not a joke, just tell them something!"

"And what would you like me to tell them?"

"Anything!"

"I've already told them everything I know, they don't believe me" he replied quietly.

"Of course they don't believe you! I don't believe you!" Sherlock simply rolled his eyes and looked back towards the struggling doctor. "Sherlock I'm serious! Just give them something, so this can stop!"

"I can't."

Lestrade was shaking with rage. If looks could kill, Sherlock would be nothing more than a pile of ash on the floor.

In desperation, he turned his attention to X and all but begged to let the man go. He used every card he could think of, but none of it seemed to work. Resigned to the fact that there was nothing more he could do, Greg turned to watch his friend try to breath in what little air remained. A number of times he had wanted to look away, the fear on John's face was almost too much to bear; but he would not miss the doctor's final moments. He wanted his face to be the last thing that John saw before he died. Not the face of one of men who had caused him so much pain, but that of a friend.

* * *

The plastic continued to get closer and closer, sticking to his face and restricting his breathing. John could not help the panic which took over, as he gasped at the air which was no longer there.

He knew this was it. There was no escaping. He would die in this room, with a hole in his shoulder and a bag over his head. As much as it scared him, he was almost glad that the pain would finally be over. With his last breath, he took one final look at the dark curly haired detective - his housemate and the best friend he had ever had. Tears fell from his eyes as his mouth filled with plastic and his body reacted accordingly. A few moments later, he went completely still.

* * *

**:O**

**WHAT?!**

**That wasn't supposed to happen! Where did that come from?!**

**Thanks for reading, reviews are welcome (in fact loved)**

**With any luck the next chapter should be up this time next week – I'm not finished with them yet… **


	11. Chapter 11

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

While investigating a seemingly ordinary crime scene, our heroes find themselves in a less than ideal situation.

**Warnings for violence and torture***

Disclaimer:

I do not own Sherlock. It all belongs to the BBC and the magnificent Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The original Sherlock Holmes is of course a creation of the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All credit must go to them for the characters. Even though they don't belong to me, I still like to take them out and play with them once in a while… problem is, I don't always play nice…

Authors Notes:

That was sooo not how I originally planned that last chapter to go... I don't know where that drill came from. That was just gruesome and wrong! Poor John :(

Thanks for all the wonderful reviews and for all the people who continue to follow the story.

_**Italics will be used to indicate flashbacks.**_

* * *

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

- Chapter Eleven -

* * *

The entire room had gone completely silent as everyone stared at the unmoving figure slumped in the chair.

The last few minutes had without a doubt, been one of the most traumatic things Greg had ever experienced. John's desperate struggles for air as the plastic clung to his face will be an image which will stay with him for years to come.

"John?" Greg whispered.

Another second passed and still no one moved.

This wasn't how things were supposed to happen. John was a war hero; he didn't deserve to die like this. He didn't want to believe it; he must be having a nightmare. John couldn't really be dead, there was no way.

"John!" Lestrade repeated more forcibly this time, as if his tone alone could breathe new life into his friend. John however, remained completely still, his chest showed no signs of movement.

He turned to stare at Sherlock who appeared to have frozen, eyes focused intently on John's unmoving body.

"I hope you're happy" he growled viciously at the man. "This is your fault!"

Sherlock glanced at him for a fraction of a second before turning his attention once more to the motionless figure and the men standing behind him.

Another couple of seconds passed before X spoke up.

"You are one… cold… human being, Mr Holmes" he said, taking a step forward.

Without warning, he grabbed hold of the plastic bag and ripped it free from John's head.

"See if you can get him breathing again." He ordered Rusty quietly with a flick of his hand.

Lestrade's heart caught in his chest as he peered into the peaceful face of John Watson. He could clearly see the small tears, which had fallen down the sickly pale cheeks and which were still pooled around his now closed eyes. The sight made him want to cry.

"… Put him in with the rest of the ice."

Greg only caught the end of X's instructions, too caught up in his own emotions but it was clear they were not for him. He turned and watched as Frank untied the restraints on the detective's arms and guided him towards the door. Sherlock's eyes remained staring blankly at John, who had been tipped on to his back, still tied to the chair.

As Sherlock was walked past John, X came right up to him and spoke quietly in his ear. Lestrade could not hear what X had said, but he could see Sherlock's face start to pale, before he was marched away. With a loud crash, the detective disappeared through the door. He had left without even looking back. This upset Lestrade all over again; it looked like he really didn't care after all.

"Take the Inspector down to the cells and put him in number one."

With that, he felt the restraints on his own arms being loosened and he was pulled to his feet by the youngest of the men.

"Wait please! Is he going to be okay?" He asked desperately.

X glanced towards Rusty, who now appeared to be giving John CPR.

"I don't know… either way he'll be down with you shortly." He replied with a fake smile as Greg was pulled from the room.

* * *

Sherlock remained quiet as he was marched away, not noticing where he going. His mind struggled to process what had just happened.

The smell of Lestrade's burning flesh…

The noise of the power drill as it dug into John's shoulder…

The blood…

The screams…

The silence…

"_John?" Greg whispered. _

_He stared at the unmoving body of his best friend, his mind racing with calculations of how long the human body can go without oxygen. _

_How long would it take to get the man breathing again? _

_How long would it take for them to react, if and when he spoke? _

_How long before permanent damage was done? _

_And how long before it would all be too late? _

_He couldn't be certain of any of these things, he would have to estimate. It would be an educated guess, but still just a guess. Not a very comforting notion when someone's life was at stake._

"_I hope you're happy" Lestrade growled viciously at him. "This is your fault!"_

_He still couldn't look at the Inspector; there was too much anger in his eyes._

_Five seconds. _

_That's how long he had, five seconds. Five more seconds and he would talk…_

_Four seconds._

_What if he was wrong? What if they didn't know first aid? It might take them longer..._

_Three seconds._

_He was going to have to say something. He shouldn't have let it go this far, what was he thinking?!_

_Two seconds._

"_You are one… cold… human being, Mr Holmes" X said, taking a step forward and ripping the bag from John's head. _

_It took all of his remaining will power not to react to the overwhelming sense of relief he now felt flood through his body._

"_See if you can get him back" X continued. Rusty leant down to check for breathing, while he tried to appear uninterested. The truth was, he felt sick to the stomach and was on the verge of breaking. Just because they had removed the bag did not guarantee that John would be okay. His mind raced with new calculations. _

_How long had he already gone without oxygen? _

_How much time did they have to get him breathing again? _

_He stared into John's face and tried to ignore the numerous tear tracks and the blue tinge to his lips. _

_There was still time. _

"_Take him down to the freezer and put him in with the rest of the ice" X instructed._

_Sherlock felt his heart start to race. He couldn't bear the thought of leaving; he had to know if John was going to be alright. He felt his arms come free of the restraints and for a second he entertained the thought of trying to fight his way out. One look at John however, took that option off the table. Rusty had him on his back and looked to be performing CPR. He couldn't jeopardise John's life any more than he already had. _

_He continued to stare, praying that he would see that spark of life return; to see John open his eyes and take a deep breath. Instead he saw X move into his line of sight, a cold look on his face. He leant in and quietly spoke in a deep and menacing voice._

"_Let me make this perfectly clear. The ONLY reason I'm allowing this, is because as a doctor, he may still prove useful. Don't think for a second that I would feel even an ounce of remorse if he never wakes up. In fact, I'm really hoping he doesn't; that way I can sit him in your cell as he slowly decomposes. He'll be a constant reminder of how you failed him and of what happens to people who don't cooperate. Have a little think about that, when you're locked away in the cold."_

Sherlock was pulled from his thoughts as he felt himself come to a halt. Frank opened the door to what looked like an industrial freezer and he felt himself being pushed towards it. Thankfully, it wasn't too cold; it must still be reaching its minimum temperature, so clearly it hadn't been used for a while. That offered him little comfort however, as Frank slammed the door closed, throwing him into complete darkness. He listened to a bolt being locked in place and the footsteps disappear down the hall. He was once again alone, with only his thoughts and the sounds of industrial fans, blowing cold air at him.

For the first time since the whole ordeal started, Sherlock allowed the well constructed walls of his mind to collapse. The weight of what he had seen, of what he had allowed to transpire, came crashing down on top of him.

He yelled until his throat felt raw. He punched and kicked the door. Eventually though, he found himself sitting on the cold floor with his head in his hands and tears streaming down his face. He kept picturing John lying on the ground, still tied to his chair. Blood pooling around his shoulder as Rusty pushed against his chest. What had he done?

If John wasn't alive, he would never forgive himself.

* * *

The walk to the cell block had been very quiet, with neither Greg nor his captor uttering a single word. When they arrived at their destination, Jatz opened the door and pushed him inside, locking the door behind him. He decided to take the opportunity to try to talk to the lad. He was clearly the weakest link in the group, perhaps he could talk him around.

"It's Jatz, isn't it?" The young man froze for a second and then looked up with a smile.

"Sure, why not."

"Listen mate, you don't have to do this. You're not like those other blokes, I can see you don't really want to be here. Let me help you. Just let me make a phone call, I'll put in a good word, get you a good deal."

"Nice try copper" he replied quietly as he turned to walk away.

"Wait! Please just… John… Doctor Watson… Is he going to be alright?"

Jatz paused for a second but did not turn around.

"Rusty's done this sort of thing before" he replied quietly; and with that the young man dissapeared.

The room, looked like it could have been an office in a former life. Unlike the previous areas he had been in, this one had painted walls and appeared to have had carpet in it at some point. The door had been replaced with a metal frame and a series of vertical rods, which made it look like a cell out of an old 70's movie. He could see a window and a doorway to the right, which lead to the room next door. The glass had been removed and a number of metal bars had been installed in both spaces, creating two separate cells. Looking around, Lestrade could see a single, moth eaten mattress which had been pushed into the back corner of the room. To the left of this lay a basic metal basin and a toilet. Looking through the gaps, he noticed that the neighbouring room looked almost identical, except for the extra barred window and doorway leading to what was no doubt a third cell. He couldn't help but wonder just how many cells there were down here.

With little else to do but wait and worry, Greg stumbled over and slumped down on the mattress, his back against the cool wall. He briefly entertained the notion of cleaning some of his wounds but found that he couldn't; not until he knew if John would be alright.

He tried not to think about where they had taken Sherlock, if he was honest he didn't really care that much anyway. _'He deserves everything he gets!'_ he thought bitterly to himself. In fact if he could, he would take a drill to the man's shoulder himself, just to show him what it felt like.

He couldn't sit anymore, the waiting was killing him. He stood up and walked over to the main door, trying to peer down the corridor with little success. He then started pacing. Five steps side to side and seven back to front. It was at this time that he heard the corridor door creak open and Frank came storming in.

"Get back." He growled in a threatening voice.

He took a couple of small steps backwards as Frank unlocked the door and walked straight up to him. Any thoughts of escape were instantly forgotten as John was then carried in, dangling between the arms of Rusty and Jatz. They deposited him roughly on the old mattress and then turned to leave. John was still not moving.

"Is he okay?"

"Shut up!" Rusty growled as the three men exited, slamming the door and locking them both in.

Greg rushed to his friend's side, one hand searched for a pulse while the other rested gently on his chest. He leaned his ear towards the doctor's face, looking for signs of life.

Tears rushed from his eyes as he felt his hand move up and down, in time with the weak breathes he felt, coming from John's mouth.

He was alive.

Greg rolled on to his back and gazed up at the ceiling. He allowed himself 30 seconds to break down. He had been so focused on his anger that he had managed to suppress all of his other emotions. It was only now that he let them show. His fear, pain and relief came pouring out of him and for once, he let it. After his 30 seconds were up, Greg took a deep breath, wiped the tears from his eyes and turned his attention back to his unconscious friend. John may be alive for now, but if he didn't see to his shoulder and stop the bleeding, that may soon change.

"John?" He wanted desperately to see the man's blue eyes again.

"John?" He said a little louder this time, shaking him gently.

"Mmmm" It wasn't much, but it was the greatest sound that he had ever heard.

"John?" He asked for the third time and the man's eyes slowly fluttered open. Greg couldn't help the ridiculous smile which passed over his face.

"Are you okay? Well obviously you're not, how could you be but… How bad is it?" Lestrade asked quietly, not really knowing if he wanted an honest answer or not.

"I… I think I'm gonna… pass out now…" John whispered, before his head rolled to the side and he went completely still. For the second time in less than ten minutes, Greg felt his heart skip a beat as he once again checked for breathing and felt for a pulse; relieved when he eventually found both. It looked like John had indeed just passed out. Greg didn't blame him. In many ways he wished he could do the same thing, if not just to be oblivious of the situation for a little while.

John's wounds looked even worse close up. The morning light was creeping into the room, making every cut and bruise stand out on the man's body. It was also lighting up the pool of blood which was slowly growing on the mattress underneath where John's shoulder was resting. With a new sense of urgency, Lestrade made it his new mission to stop the bleeding and administer what little first aid he could under the circumstances.

* * *

_He didn't say anything; he couldn't no matter what they were doing. _

_Frank lent down and grabbed the little finger on Lestrade's right hand and violently twisted it until it stuck out at an almost 90 degree angle. John was screaming, at him; at them. _

_He tried to concentrate on blocking out all incoming data, including the slight smell of burning flesh and the pained moans coming from Lestrade's general direction. He was determined not to say anything._

The memories swirled around his head like a whirlpool. He felt as if he were drowning.

"_I did some research on you, Doctor Watson…" _

"_Have you ever been shot Mr Holmes?" _

"_I have always been curious as to what it would feel like to be shot in slow motion. To feel a piece of hot lead slowly bore its way through layers of skin and bone…"_

_X picking up the cordless drill_

_John's panic stricken face._

"_I always considered myself a handy man…"_

_The sound of the drill._

Sherlock felt sick. It was like being stuck a bad dream, only worse.

He could remember every detail with nauseating clarity.

_The drill started and Sherlock could feel a huge lump form in his throat. He had been starting to second guess his course of action, but after the response to John's confession, he was even more determined to remain silent, no matter what happened. No matter how much it hurt to do so, he would keep up the act._

"_You don't need to do this! Put it down! He's told you everything he knows!" Lestrade continued to yell at the three men as they played around with the drill, successfully intimidated them._

"_Come on Mr Holmes, you know that I will follow through with this. Just tell me what I want to know and it can all stop..." _

_He rolled his eyes and thought carefully about how he should respond. He didn't want to say anything at all, but he had to keep up the act. If they thought for a second that he cared, it would all be in vain and they'd torture John anyway. He just hoped they would understand when the time came._

"_I don't care what you do to them; I have said everything I intend to say on the matter."_

_The look he received from both John and Lestrade felt worse than anything Jatz had done to him. The _

_Look of hurt and betrayal cut deeper than any knife could._

"_So be it."_

_X placed the tip of the drill into the already wounded shoulder and slowly pressed the lever. _

The sounds of John's scream echoed around his head. He pulled at his hair, trying to distract himself from the memory, but he found that the more he tried to ignore the sound, the louder it got. The room was getting steadily colder and Sherlock found himself shaking, although he wasn't entirely convinced that it was from the drop of temperature anymore.

* * *

**Naaaaw poor Sherlock.**

**I hope this makes up a little bit for the last chapter - he's not so heartless after all. Hope I didn't over do the emotional fallout…**

**Thanks for reading! Reviews are welcome.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

While investigating a seemingly ordinary crime scene, our heroes find themselves in a less than ideal situation.

**Warnings for violence and torture***

Disclaimer:

I do not own Sherlock. It all belongs to the BBC and the magnificent Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The original Sherlock Holmes is of course a creation of the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All credit must go to them for the characters. Even though they don't belong to me, I still like to take them out and play with them once in a while… problem is, I don't always play nice…

Authors Notes:

An extra chapter this week because I'm super awesome… at procrastinating with actual work… It's a smaller one, but I figured 'Hey it's a bonus chapter!' There will be another chapter up at the usual time this weekend.

ANYWAY Thanks to _Sherdocwho_, _nadster23_, _ ,_ _Sherlocked in my heart_ and _Calatia_ for the kind and humorous reviews and to everyone who continues to like and follow the story. Enjoy!

* * *

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

- Chapter Twelve -

* * *

Lestrade removed his thick jacket and dropped it by his side. He noticed with some relief, that the right sleeve had only been rolled up and not cut away, to gain access to his arm (something he was still trying to avoid looking at). He took off his long sleeve shirt and proceeded to rip both of the arms off at the seam. He then removed his white singlet before redressing himself in the remaining shirt and jacket. In no time at all, he had managed to fashion a number of makeshift bandages and cloths out of the torn material. It took almost all of his strength to then remove John's clothes from his upper body before getting to work on cleaning and dressing the man's numerous wounds. The shoulder was the first priority; it was still bleeding quite noticeably. Greg placed a wad of material behind the shoulder and pushed against the wound with another. John stirred slightly, but his eyes remained closed.

He stayed that way, watching the white material around his hands slowly turn red; hoping above all else, that he could stop the slow flow sooner rather than later. He wasn't sure how much more blood John could afford to lose.

* * *

When Sally arrived at Collins' room, she was surprised to find the man not only awake, but talking to the doctor. After giving her apologies, she waited outside for about three minutes before being informed that she could go in. Collins had suffered a severe concussion but appeared to be functioning quite well, all things considered. Sally was further surprised when upon entering the small room, the man in the bed appeared to already know who she was.

"Sergeant Donovan?"

She frantically searched her memory banks but came up blank. They must have run into each other at the station or at a crime scene but she couldn't place him. The two talked for a short time, exchanging polite conversation about how he was feeling and about how Raimes was doing before getting down to business.

"Sergeant, I hate to do this to you first thing in the morning but I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you some questions about what happened last night."

"I have a few questions about last night myself. What happened?"

"What was the last thing you remember?"

"I… I saw a group of men come running in from outside holding guns. I went to call for backup and then… I guess I got hit. Did I get the call out?"

"I'm afraid not. We arrived on scene after an explosion was reported. You and your partner were found unconscious in the lobby along with the owner. By the time we got there, the building was on fire. As far as we can tell there were no casualties, however D.I. Lestrade and two other men have been abducted and the original crime scene has been completely destroyed."

Donovan gave the man a few seconds to process the information. It was a lot to take in after having just woken up a short time ago.

"Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson?"

"Yes, did you know them?"

"I've seen them at a few different scenes, but we're usually moved away when they arrive. Wouldn't say I know them, but I know who they are." Sally just nodded; she knew that feeling all too well.

"We think the attack was all part of a cover up, so we need to gather as much information as possible on the original crime scene. We're hoping that it may lead us to the people who have Lestrade and the others. I'm looking for any information you can give me about the two victims and the scene itself. I understand you were first on scene?"

"Yeah that's right."

"I'm also led to believe that you spent sometime in the room talking to Lestrade. I need to know anything he may have told you about the case."

"Of course; anything I can do to help. Where would you like me to start?

* * *

After what felt like close to twenty minutes, Greg was able to slow the bleeding in John's shoulder to the point where he could wrap the wound in the crude bandages. It was a further ten minutes or so after he had redressed the man, that John finally stirred.

Greg had been cleaning the cut on John's forehead, when he noticed the man's eyes slowly flutter open. He blinked a number of times in confusion, before a look of recognition passed over his face.

"Greg?"

"Hey buddy. How're you feeling?"

"Hurts" John whispered as he closed his eyes again.

"Yeah, I know" he replied sadly.

After, he finished wiping the dried blood and sweat away from John's face, Lestrade tossed the stained rag back into the wash basin and sank to the floor. He was absolutely exhausted and still in a lot of pain himself. He hadn't had the opportunity to see to his own wounds yet, his attention too occupied with John's needs. Now that he did have the time, he didn't know whether he would have the strength or the energy.

* * *

_The drill moved painfully slow, X pushing forward quite hard, particularly when it hit bone. John's screams cut at his heart. The longer it went on, the more damaging they were._

"_STOP IT! SHERLOCK, DO SOMETHING!" _

_He didn't want to, but he tore his eyes away from the scene in front of him to take a look at the Inspector. Lestrade was beside himself, trying to tear free of the restraints. The look he shot Sherlock was one of pure rage. He couldn't stand to look at him anymore, there was too much hatred in his eyes, too much pain, so he turned his attention back to John. _

_Without warning, X made a loud growling sound and removed the drill piece from John's shoulder._

"_Damn thing's not long enough, I can't get through the bone…"_

_For the first time, Sherlock got a good look at his tortured friend. He had managed to avoid looking at him before now; fixing his gaze on Frank's hands had made it appear like he was watching on with disinterest. It was alarming how much blood John had already lost and how pale he looked as he sat shaking in his seat, still being held in place by their captors._

"_Sherlock..." said a quiet, shaky voice._

_He looked up into the pleading eyes of his friend and felt physically ill. As much as he would have loved to bring a stop to John's pain, he knew he couldn't say anything. As ridiculous as it may sound, it was for his own good. At least he hoped it was…_

"_Sherlock… please…" _

_He had heard numerous people plead with him over the years, but hearing John Watson do it was gut wrenching. He didn't know what was worse, the begging, the ear piercing screams, or the pained animal cries he would sometimes make. He had tried to block them out but found that he couldn't anymore, and he felt like a piece of him was slowly dying because of it. _

"_SHERLOCK!" Lestrade yelled. _

_That was the other thing that was really bothering him; hearing his name yelled in such a panicked, desperate way. Just as he would get himself under control, Lestrade would yell his name and he could feel the foundations start to shake again. He tried to ignore it._

_He could feel the Inspector's eyes burning holes into him, like they had been for a while now, but he still couldn't look at him. He was having enough trouble controlling his own emotions without exposing himself to that as well. _

_The tool plunged deep into John's shoulder. _

_A long agonizing scream echoed through the room, as the drill piece finally passed through the shoulder blade and back out through the skin, completing the narrow hole. _

It was too much, all too much and the worst thing was, it may have all been in vain. He thought back to Rusty trying to pump life back into his friend. His friend who had tear tracks running down his face and who had looked so scared yet acted so bravely. He wished above all else that John was alright. He was absolutely terrified that his gamble had not paid off and that he had lost the most valuable thing he had ever had... Lestrade was right; he didn't deserve a friend like him.

* * *

"Greg?"

He opened his eyes, not entirely sure when exactly he had closed them.

"Yeah?"

"Where's Sherlock?" He was momentarily speechless. That was not something he was expecting to hear.

"Are you serious? Do you remember what he did to you? Did to us?" John shook his head.

"He didn't do anything to us, they did."

"Yeah, because of him! You didn't hear what he said… when they put that bag on your head…" Lestrade felt himself choking up at the memory. "I don't care where he is and neither should you." John shook his head again.

"He would have had his reasons."

"You almost died John! I thought for a long time that you had. You have a bloody hole in your arm! He sat there and let them do that. Let them burn me and break my fingers. That was him! He's the only one that could have stopped them and he chose not to. You know the worst part? He didn't even look sorry."

John was quiet for a full minute and Lestrade thought the conversation was over.

"You're wrong, he was sorry."

Greg sighed. "John listen..."

"You didn't see his face. Just before they finished the… hole… I've never seen him look like that… He was sorry."

It was Greg's turn to be silent.

Even if John was right and Sherlock was sorry, it didn't excuse what he did.

"I don't know where he is" he eventually said. "They took him away when you were unconscious… I haven't seen him since."

"How long ago was that?"

"I don't know" he said with a sigh, "half an hour maybe."

John looked worried, but with no other information Lestrade could do little to comfort the man, choosing instead to change the subject.

"How's your shoulder feeling? I did my best to patch you up, but you might want to take a look yourself a little later on. I'm no doctor after all" he said with a small smile.

"I'm sure you did a great job. How about you? How are you feeling?"

"Better than you I'm guessing."

"How's your hand?"

"I'm not gonna lie, my fingers are killing me. I was going to try and straighten them, but I thought I should probably wait for you."

"Okay, let me have a look."

Greg held out his right arm, and tried not to stare at the twisted digits. It made him feel nauseous every time he did. John poked and prodded for a number of minutes, while he clenched his teeth and tried to remain still.

"Do you want the good news, or the bad news first?"

"Bad."

"Okay; it looks like your ring finger is probably only dislocated, but I can't be sure until I straighten it out. The little one's definitely broken, and it's not receiving enough blood. I'll need to do a lot of manipulating to try and fix it. We have no pain killers so… It's going to hurt… a lot."

Greg nodded, he had guessed as much.

"So what's the good news?"

"You're here with a doctor? Sorry, there isn't really any."

"Great."

"We should do this now, before it gets any worse."

They used the closed lid of the toilet as a table and knelt down either side of it. He laid his arm across the smooth surface, while John explained what he was going to do. The doctor only really had use of his one good hand; his other gripped weakly at his jacket collar, trying to take as much pressure as possible off his injured shoulder. John stressed how important it would be that Greg remained as still as possible for both their sakes.

When he felt ready, he gave John a silent nod and the doctor took hold of his ring finger and started to force it back into position. He grinded his teeth and hit the wall with his free hand to try and control the powerful instinct to pull away. It didn't take long before the finger looked straight and John was checking it over.

"Looks good. One down, one to go."

With that, the doctor moved on to the little finger, which stuck out at an alarming angle. After only a few seconds of manipulation, the pain became too much for him.

"Stop! Stop, stop."

He pulled his hand away and had just enough time to open the toilet lid before he was throwing up. John moved around to rub small circles in his back as his body continued to betray him. After a few minutes he sat back down and took a couple of deep breaths. He was trembling slightly and he still felt sick.

"You ready to give it another go?" John asked quietly.

"I just need a minute." He whispered back. God how he wished he could just pass out.

* * *

**Feel free to let me know what you think**


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer:

I do not own Sherlock. It all belongs to the BBC and the magnificent Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The original Sherlock Holmes is of course a creation of the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All credit must go to them for the characters. Even though they don't belong to me, I still like to take them out and play with them once in a while… problem is, I don't always play nice…

Authors Notes:

Thanks to everyone who reviewed! All your kind words and encouragement is what keeps me motivated!

_Sherdocwho _– Your reviews always make me grin like an idiot, thanks for the ongoing support.

_ElohimAelf_ – Hehehe thanks. I'm glad you like it.

_Sherlocked in my Heart_ – I don't know about being an author, I'm not that great at writing and it takes me forever to do but thanks for the compliment. I'm glad you like the story.

_Nine_ and _The Bromance Kills_ – I originally planned to have a bit of a fight between John and Sherlock, but then I wrote it and didn't really happen. This seems to be happening to me a lot lately, for instance I never planned on the drill or the freezer scenes happening… this story has just taken on a life of its own now… I seem to have minimal control over what happens. My original plans have gone out the window. Having said that, I think I still want one though… I'll have to see if I can work one in or change things up a bit.

Thanks also to my loyal followers. I'm blown away by how many people have been reading this. Thanks again!

* * *

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

- Chapter Thirteen -

* * *

Several hours after entering Sergeant Tony Collins' hospital room, Sally left with a treasure trove of information. Raimes was not exaggerating when he said that his partner wanted to be a detective and from what she just saw, he would be a fantastic addition to the team; he was definitely observant. He was able to explain in some detail the appearance of both victims as well as the layout of the room. He even went as far as drawing his own interpretation of the scene; a far more detailed version than that of Constable Raimes. She now had some idea of who the victims were and that they had likely shot each other. Best of all, she now had an ID. Collins was able to tell her that the older victim's name was Tony Roberts and that he was a software designer from Leeds. Lestrade had found a wallet on the man's body shortly after arriving, as well as a few other possessions. In one of the man's pocket, he had also discovered a coded note, which the two men had apparently spent some time trying to decipher. When she asked the officer if he could remember what was written on the note she was disappointed to only get the first small section.

"_I'm sorry I can't remember the whole thing, but I do know that it started with 'TL Esc'. It also had the word 'head' in it, but that's about it I'm afraid; the rest would just be a guess."_

"_TL ESC? Are you sure?"_

"_No no no. 'TL Esc'. You know, like the escape button on a keyboard."_

"_Did you or Lestrade have any idea as to what the message might be trying to say?"_

"_Not really. It was written with a mixture of numbers as well as lower and uppercase letters. We thought it was probably on purpose but we couldn't be sure. It was the 'Esc' that had us curious; because of the specific way it was written and the fact that the victim was a software designer, we thought that they could have been computer instructions. It was just a thought though; in reality we had no idea. Lestrade said he would get someone to look at it later."_

With only a partial message it was going to be difficult to find out what it really meant and if it had any relevance to the case. Even so, putting that aside, she was over the moon with the information Collins gave her. She felt like kissing the man when she said her farewells. Now that she had one of the victim's names, it would simply be a matter of looking him up. She got on her phone and made a call to the station.

"Yeah its Donovan, I need someone to run a background check on a Mr Tony Roberts. He's been identified as being a software designer from Leeds. I need as much information as you can find on him, it's a priority." With that she hung up her phone and called DI Dimmock whom she asked to meet at the Skyridge Hotel. The forensic unit should be there by now and she wanted to compare notes on the crime scene. Hopefully they would be able to start piecing this all together very soon.

* * *

"_Jatz get the bag." _

_He watched the younger man closely as he appeared at his side and picked up the plastic bag from the table. He didn't look like the same person who was throwing fists at him an hour ago. All of his enthusiasm had disappeared; his face looked hardened, eyes almost haunted. Clearly seeing and hearing someone get a hole drilled through their body was a completely different ball game to simply beating someone one up. He was in over his head. The detective's eye's watched him closely as he walked towards the small group surrounding the unconscious doctor. He felt his mouth go dry and his throat restrict, as Jatz placed the bag over John's head._

"_The game is over now, this is it. You start cooperating or your friend will die."_

_John was still unconscious, but he wouldn't be for long. His mind raced, with all the different possible scenarios. What should he do?_

"_Sherlock for God's sake, just tell them something, anything! Whatever it is, it's not worth John's life!" _

_Sherlock looked over at Lestrade and made his decision. It would be a risky move, but the Inspector had unknowingly given him an opening. He would stick to the plan… for now._

"_I hardly think you are in a position to make that decision for me Lestrade. You don't know how much value I place on John Watson's life." _

Even now, just thinking of the words cut him deep.

"_He was my housemate" he said with a shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. _

"_What do you mean was?"_

"_Is… not for much longer though by the looks of it…" _

_He had gone too far, he knew that, but it was something he had to do. He didn't think there was any coming back from this now but if it worked he wouldn't care._

"_You disgust me!" Lestrade yelled back at him. "Anderson was right you don't care about anyone but yourself… I can't believe even for one second, that I thought you were a decent man! You're no better than this lot..!" The intensity of Lestrade's anger and disgust was making for a very heated conversation, one which Sherlock hoped would pay off._

"… _You don't deserve someone like him. He would have taken a bullet for you! Are you really just going to sit here and watch him suffocate?!" _

_The truth was that he wanted nothing more in the world than to break free of his restraints and rush over to help. Sherlock knew that if the roles were reversed, that John would do anything to help him. Anything to protect him. He had killed a man already to save his life. Lestrade had not been exaggerating when he said John would take a bullet for him. In fact at the pool, he very nearly did. He knew all this, which is why it hurt so much. Lestrade was right._

"_This is not a joke, just tell them something!"_

"_And what would you like me to tell them?" He was almost desperate. In a way he wanted Lestrade to talk him round._

"_Anything!"_

"_I've already told them everything I know, they don't believe me" he replied quietly. He shot Jatz and X the slightest of glances noticing the looks of discomfort and disgust on the younger man's face and a look of extreme interest on the other._

"_Of course they don't believe you! I don't believe you!" He rolled his eyes and looked back towards the struggling doctor. He had never felt so conflicted in his life. He was fighting the biggest internal battle he had ever had. One half of his mind screamed to put an end to it all. The other side, the logical side, continued to stress the importance of keeping up the charade. Reminding what was left of his rational mind, exactly what would happen if he let it all fall apart now. It was a huge bluff, but one he had to stick with._

"_Sherlock I'm serious! Just give them something, so this can stop!"_

"_I can't."_

_He knew in that moment, that any relationship he may have had with Lestrade was now officially over. The look he gave him said as much and Sherlock was surprised to realise just how much that upset him. _

_Sherlock watched as John turned to look at him while taking his final breath. The plastic filled the man's mouth and his body shuddered before becoming completely still. The sounds of panicked struggles disappeared and the room was plunged into complete silence. _

_He felt his heart stop. He felt sick._

"_John?" Lestrade whispered. _

_He stared at the unmoving body of his best friend, his mind racing with calculations of how long the human body can go without oxygen…_

It was like the whole thing was stuck on repeat, the events playing over and over again in his head taunting him with 'what ifs'. Hurting him with the memories of the sights and of the sounds.

"_SHERLOCK DO SOMETHING!"_

He hugged his knees to his chest and buried his head in his lap trying to maintain some of his body heat. The room seemed to be getting colder and colder with each passing minute. He knew he had to pull himself together, not just for his own sake but in case the others returned. If they saw him like this, it would break his cover and while he suspected from X's last comment, that the man knew he wasn't entirely unaffected by John's condition; it would be best for all involved if he didn't know to what extent. He took a few deep breathes and tried to calm himself as he entered into his mind palace. There he got to work sorting through the memories, trying hard to separate each event from the connecting emotions. John would be fine, he told himself. He had to be. It was John.

* * *

After straightening and splinting Greg's fingers as best he could, John had spend the next several minutes inspecting the numerous cuts and burns on his friend's arm. Between the two of them, they were able to clean and dress the worst of them with what basic materials they had. As a result his shoulder once again felt like it was on fire. Pain radiated down his arm and into his chest, making every movement agonising. After he was satisfied that Greg's wounds had been treated to the best of his ability, he started to consider taking a look at his own injury. He knew that he should, but he really didn't want to either. He made up a number of excuses as to why it would be best to simply leave it alone.

Because he didn't want to restart the bleeding.

Because they didn't have any more 'clean bandages' to use.

Because it would make the area more susceptible to infection.

Because it would hurt and most likely freak him out…

Besides Lestrade would have dealt with injuries in the field before. It wasn't that difficult to clean and cover a wound…

As much as he tried to convince himself that he didn't need to check on it, he knew that he had to… just not right now. In the end the real reason that he didn't look was because he was quite simply too exhausted. He had been awake for over 24 hours and had in that time been tortured and nearly killed. That would tire anyone out. Looking over at his fellow cell mate, he could see Greg's eye's also struggling to stay open.

Despite the fact that there was only one small mattress, it was quickly decided they would both share it. He laid down first, with his head to the back of the room, his injured shoulder propped up against the wall. He figured that it would help restrict movement and protect it while he slept. Lestrade slipped in beside him so the men were laying head to toe on the small and narrow space. It wasn't the most comfortable thing in the world, however within 30 seconds he felt his eyes close.

* * *

Peter Dimmock was on his way back to the Skyridge Hotel after a couple of very disappointing interviews with the officers who had responded to the original 999 call. It would appear that in typical police fashion, other than knowing that the two victims were both dead and that the area was secure, the officers could provide little information on specific details. While some could give brief descriptions of the state and appearances of one or more of the bodies, as a whole the interviews were very discouraging. He was frustrated but he also understood; after all it wasn't their job to go snooping around crime scenes; that was the responsibility of the forensic team and the detectives. It didn't stop him from feeling disheartened though.

When he received the call from Donovan she had seemed quite upbeat, asking to meet him at the crime scene. He hoped that this meant that she had something. Either way, Anderson and his team should well and truly be at the hotel by now, as well as the boys from the fire department. They also had half of the department scouring through the piles of evidence currently at the station. He was quietly confident that a lead would pop up soon; he just had to be patient.

* * *

Sherlock had managed to bring the majority of his thoughts back under control, filing them away in the different recesses of his mind. He could feel his eyes growing heavier as he struggled to keep them open. He wanted nothing more than to let himself fall asleep, but knew how dangerous that could be. He was shaking all over, the room now at freezing temperatures. He didn't know how long he had been in there, his mind having been too occupied for the majority of it, but he recognised the early stages of hypothermia. He could feel the cold seeping into his bone, chilling him from the inside out. It was a feeling that he would never be warm again. His mind was becoming cloudy, his thoughts sluggish.

Suddenly a light turned on, filling his former pitch black compartment with a blinding brightness. He squinted and tried to shield his eyes from the harshness of it, with little success. He could feel hands on his arms pulling him to his feet and he decided at that point to simply pass out.

He came to not long after, but still had the presence of mind not to alert them to this fact. With any luck, they would dump him somewhere where he could rest for a few hours. Keeping his eyes closed and his body limp, the two men who had hold of him continued down the hall. A short time later he was dropped onto a hard floor before hearing a loud crash of a door being shut and locked. He remained still until he heard the footsteps completely disappear down the corridor. Still unsure of where he was, he was hesitant to open his eyes; he could hear noises coming from somewhere nearby. In the end it was his body which betrayed him yet again. He was already still shivering from the cold and was finding his current position unbearable. The movement to curl in on himself was automatic, a survival instinct, which in the end he had little control over. Nothing happened at first, and Sherlock thought he may have gotten away with it, but then he heard it. He heard his name.

* * *

**Bum Bum Bummmmm…**

**Does anyone have any idea what the note actually means? I'll be a bit devo if everyone has already figured it out, lol.**

**Thanks for reading, please review!**


	14. Chapter 14

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

While investigating a seemingly ordinary crime scene, our heroes find themselves in a less than ideal situation.

**Warnings for violence and torture***

Disclaimer:

I do not own Sherlock. It all belongs to the BBC and the magnificent Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The original Sherlock Holmes is of course a creation of the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All credit must go to them for the characters. Even though they don't belong to me, I still like to take them out and play with them once in a while… problem is, I don't always play nice…

Authors Notes:

Urg! Sorry this chapter is up a little later than usual, but it was hell to write! I have redone it about three times and I'm still not really happy with it. I wasn't exactly sure which direction to go with the whole 'reunion' thing but this is what I ended up with. Hopefully it ticks most of the boxes. Anyway… on with it I guess.

_Alorawitch_ – 'excruciatingly detailed' is this a good thing or a bad thing...? Hehehe yeah the drill thing was pretty bad I honestly don't know where that came from. I think I'm a little twisted.

_Mikiss_ – Hahahahaha you are so right! I worry about myself sometimes. I'll just be writing away and I will seriously stop for a second and think _'what the hell is wrong with you? Where did THAT come from?!' _then I just shrug it off and keep going.

Thanks for the reviews everyone! I really appreciate it!

* * *

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

- Chapter Fourteen -

* * *

Greg was startled awake by the sound of a door crashing in the distance and a number of footsteps moving towards them down the hall. He sat up in a panic, glancing down at John who was still fast asleep at his side. His mind raced with different scenarios, each just as horrifying as the next. What else could the men possibly have in stall for them?

'_Perhaps it would be nothing to worry about. Maybe they were just coming to check on them.'_ He though optimistically to himself; but that avenue of wishful thinking disappeared quickly, as he identified at least three sets of footprint moving towards the cells. They would not need all three lackeys to simply check on them. Something more sinister was about to go down and the idea terrified him. His hand and arm were still throbbing and burning from the last encounter he had with the gang, and then of course there was John…

John.

He knew in that moment that he would do what he could to protect his friend. He slowly got to his feet and moved towards the entrance, putting himself between the door and the sleeping doctor. If they wanted to get to John, they would have to go through him first. While the idea of being tortured again scared the hell out of him, the idea of being left here alone bothered him even more. If he let them take John, he doubted he would ever see the man again. The doctor would not survive another interrogation like the last one.

As the sounds of footsteps grew nearer, Greg unconsciously held his breath, trying to prepare himself for what was about to come. He watched closely as Jatz came into sight and then walked straight past him to the second cell.

"What's going on?" He asked the young man quietly; but before he had a chance to answer, Rusty and Frank walked it with an unconscious Sherlock slung between them. They moved into the centre of the neighbouring cell then let the man go; causing the detective to drop in a boneless heap on the cold, concrete floor. The two men then exited the room and Jatz locked the door behind them before all three disappeared back down the corridor without saying a word.

The room was completely silent as Lestrade looked critically at the still detective. From his angle the man looked to be in relatively good shape, except for the fact that his entire body trembled uncontrollably. He thought back to when they had taken Sherlock away. He had thought he had heard X mention something about ice. Greg felt his stomach flip; _'they hadn't put him in a freezer for all that time had they?'_

It was about then that he realised, as frustrating as it was, that no matter how much he hated Sherlock right now, he did still care about the man.

Once the footsteps had faded into the distance and the detective had still not moved, Greg started to become worried. He looked back towards John and briefly considered waking him up but then decided against it. There was nothing he would be able to do from their side of the wall anyway and besides, the man needed to rest.

He heard movement coming from the neighbouring cell and his attention was once again drawn back to Sherlock who slowly curled himself into the foetal position. Perhaps he was awake after all.

"Sherlock?" He asked quietly.

A second passed in silence before the man in question rolled onto his back and sat up, eyes searching desperately for the source of the voice.

"Lestrade…" Sherlock said in a whisper, as his eyes scanned the room.

He watched in confusion as the man jumped to his feet then rushed over to inspect the small number of facilities in the cell. He paused once at the window and once at the basin, before he slowly walked over to the bars and said in a very casual voice, "I see your still in one piece, what about John, is he alive?"

All previous thoughts of sentiment instantly disappeared as Lestrade now pictured himself strangling the man. He was angry for allowing himself to get sucked into caring about the detective yet again. It was clear that Sherlock showed no concern for him, so he made a point not to show any in return. He had been prepared to let the man explain himself, but the over the top arrogance and his indifferent attitude was the final straw. It was like rubbing salt into the wound he himself had inflicted.

"Like you care" he growled.

* * *

When he first heard his name, he thought he was imagining it. He had been hearing Lestrade say his name over and over again for the last… God knows how long. This time it was different though. It didn't hold any anger or desperation; rather it was a questioning tone, almost caring. Could it be? He rolled onto his back and sat up, eyes searching wildly for the source of the sound. He felt his heart soar when he spotted the Inspector staring at him through a barred window.

"Lestrade" he whispered, both in astonishment and disbelief.

His joy was quickly replaced by suspicion, as a number of questions flew through his mind. _'Why was he here? Why so close to Lestrade? Why not somewhere else?' _

He quickly jumped to his feet and began to frantically search the small room, looking for any signs of recording devices; taking in the layout of the room as he went. As he drew closer to the window, he paused for a second. Through the gap he caught sight of his very still and pale looking friend, lying prone on a small mattress. He wanted nothing more than to know if he was alright, but he couldn't ask; at least not right away.

Pulling himself away from the window he continued his search, moving closer to inspect the toilet and basin. What he saw there made him freeze. Attached the underside of the sink was a small audio recording device, about the size of a USB flash drive. He felt his heart sink once again as he realised that he would have to be careful with what he said from this point on. The test was not over yet and he could not afford to let it all fall apart now. Too much had been lost already, and there was still too much on the line. He walked over to the bars where he could clearly see Lestrade's glaring figure and he felt a lump form in his throat. He wouldn't be able to give the man an explanation or an apology like he so desperately wanted too; but recorder or not, he had to find out about John. With that in mind he said the only thing he could think of at the time.

"So I see your still in one piece then. What about John, is he alive?" He asked as casually as possible.

"Like you care" Lestrade snarled. Sherlock got as close to the bars as possible, trying to see around the Inspector to the figure lying on the mattress.

"Yes or no?"

"…Yes" Lestrade snapped after some hesitation "no thanks to you!"

He slowly nodded and then turned to walk away, his relief overwhelming. Although he desperately needed to speak with both Lestrade and John, now was not the time. He would have to wait until he was sure that 'plan B' had well and truly ended and for now that meant saying very little. He was so dreadfully cold that all really wanted to do now, was crawl into a ball and sleep but it didn't look like that was going to happen anytime soon if Lestrade got his way.

"What? Is that it?! What the hell is wrong with you?!"

Lestrade's volume was getting louder and as he turned back around, he could see John starting to stir. His heart started to race. He badly wanted to see the man; to talk to him, see if he was okay but at the same time he was anxious at the idea. What would he look like? What would he say? What could he himself say? It would be better for all concerned if John would just stay asleep for a little while longer. Unfortunately by the way Lestrade was working himself up, that was not going to happen either.

"You're not even going to ask how he is? The man, who despite ALL of this, KEEPS STICKING UP FOR YOU!"

"_Sherlock… please"_

_The drill…_

_The screams…_

_The blood…_

_The bag…_

_The pleading eye's…_

_The silence…_

He quickly swallowed down the lump in his throat and turned his head away. That was definitely not a comment that he was ever expecting to hear.

"Of course, you're right. How is he?" He asked quietly.

"Piss off!"

Figuring that it was as good a time as any, he turned his back towards Lestrade and started to walk over towards his own mattress. If he could not communicate with the others, then his next priority would be to try to raise his internal body temperature and to try to get some sleep. He did not know when he would next get the opportunity, so he had to make the most of it, even if it meant putting the two men in the cell next door, further off side. He needed to prioritise things and the truth was that he desperately needed to rest.

"Oi! You can't just walk away from this Sherlock! You need to explain what the HELL is going on!"

"Greg?" came a small voice from somewhere behind him. "What's going on?"

Sherlock froze, wanting desperately to both walk away and turn around at the same time.

"It's Sherlock" the Inspector said in a low growl.

"What?" the man asked in astonishment. He could hear the sounds of shuffling as John quickly got to his feet. "Sherlock?"

Eventually the need to see John for himself won out over the need to get warm, as he turned to face his best friend. His eyes quickly scanned the man's body as he had already done with Lestrade only minutes before.

Sunken eyes and pale face show signs of significant blood loss. He had numerous cuts and bruises to his face which had been expertly cleaned. His shoulder was now covered but the creases around his eyes, the slight clench in his teeth and the slow and careful way in which he moved, all indicated that the man was still in an incredible amount of pain. In true John Watson fashion though, he was trying not to let it show.

"Hello John" he said after a small pause. "I'm glad to see you're still alive."

The room once again fell into awkward silence as both men waited for him to continue.

He didn't.

* * *

"Hello John. I'm glad to see you're still alive." Sherlock said almost emotionlessly.

John was used to this sort of tone from Sherlock, but the lack of emotion in his voice still hurt. He waited for him to continue; to ask him if he was alright. To show some form of concern towards them or offer some kind of explanation, but he remained quiet. He glanced over at Greg who simply shrugged. The Inspector's whole body radiated anger and he didn't blame him.

"Are you okay?" He asked the detective after another couple of seconds; noticing for the first time that the man was shivering badly despite holding himself quite tightly.

"Fine" he replied nonchalantly.

"Why are you doing this?" He asked quietly.

"Doing what?"

He suddenly found that he didn't have the patience for this anymore. Sherlock sounded like he did back in the room when they were asking him about notes and missing people. It was bad enough that he did it then, considering the repercussions it had on Greg and himself but they deserved better than that, particularly after all they had been through.

"I'm sick of this Sherlock, start talking. I need to understand this. I need to know what is going on and why this is happening."

"What makes you think I know anymore than you?" Sherlock asked casually and John felt his blood start to boil.

"Oh cut the crap Sherlock and tell us what's going on!" Lestrade exploded.

"I can't. Not right now." He replied quietly, looking over his shoulder to glance at the area around the toilet and basin.

"And what the hell does that mean?!"

"Just what I said, I can't right now." He repeated calmly.

"And why the bloody hell not?!" Lestrade was red with anger, his voice coarse with yelling and still he continued. "You let them burn and taser me!"

"I know"

"You let them break my fingers!" Sherlock sighed, a sad look on his face.

"I know"

"They DRILLED A HOLE in John's shoulder!"  
"I know!"

"THEN WHY THE HELL DIDN'T YOU DO ANYTHING?!"

"Because there was more at stake than just…" Sherlock started to answer, before he stopped himself and looked away.

"Than just what? What does that mean?" Lestrade asked after a while but Sherlock remained silent.

"What could possibly be more important Sherlock? They almost killed John. "

"I know Lestrade, I was there." Sherlock replied looking back up at Lestrade who was shaking his head.

"You're unbelievable." Greg said after a second, all signs of anger now gone. "That's it John, I'm done. I'm sorry I'm not wasting anymore of my time or emotions on him. Do yourself a favour and do the same." He said in a resigned tone as he turned and walked back towards the mattress, refusing to make eye contact with either of them.

"I don't understand this Sherlock. You've got to explain this to me, because I am not getting it." He said quietly to the downcast looking detective.

"I can't" he said turning back to stare towards the sink before once again making eye contact. "Maybe later."

That had been the second time Sherlock had looked over in that direction after being asked that question, almost like he was trying to tell them something. All at once it clicked and he mouthed the question silently to the man in front of him. _'Recording?'_

Sherlock's face transformed immediately into that of extreme relief and he nodded enthusiastically for a couple of seconds before he motioned towards Lestrade then placed his index finger to his lips. Although silent, the message was clear _'don't tell Lestrade.'_

He wasn't sure why, but this did nothing more than further upset and anger him. He didn't understand the coldness or the deception. He was tired and the sudden changes in Sherlock's body language and tone were throwing him all over the place, giving him emotional whiplash.

"Just tell me one thing" he said after a number of seconds, in a slow and calm voice. "Are you even sorry?"

Sherlock stared at him for a minute, a look of sadness in his eyes. He swallowed heavily and nodded his head a few times.

"Should I be? I didn't do anything." The voice was cool and calm like it had been throughout the entire conversation, but his face told a different story.

"Exactly" growled Greg from across the other side of the room, back still facing them.

Sherlock visibly flinched at the single word.

He didn't understand why it angered him so much, perhaps it was the dishonesty. How was he to know which was the truth, the words or the actions? He had basically just told him to withhold information from Lestrade, so what else was he hiding? Why was he continually putting himself above the others? What the hell was more important than their lives? He thought they were friends…

He got more upset the more he thought about it and suddenly the answers he did have, were not enough anymore. He didn't care who might be listening, he had to know.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on or not?" He asked coldly. Sherlock looked confused.

"I just told you…"

"No Sherlock... That's not good enough." John started, shaking his head. "You can't just say 'not now' and expect things to go back to how they were… Not this time… You need to give me something." Sherlock looked at him with a blank expression.

"I need to understand how my BEST FRIEND could just sit by and watch, as three men tortured and nearly killed me. I need to know why you didn't do anything, why you didn't say anything! I was screaming, Greg was yelling at you and you did nothing!" It was getting harder to talk past the welt of emotions in his throat.

"You didn't even try to make them stop… I was BEGGING for your help Sherlock, and you know what you did?" John had tears falling from his eyes.

"You looked away." All the fight and anger had drained away, leaving only confusion and grief.

Sherlock remained silent, but would no longer look at him.

"You looked away Sherlock... You were my best friend... How could you do that to me?"

"Don't waste your time John, he doesn't care." Greg called quietly from the other side of the room. Sherlock grabbed hold of the bars in front of them so hard that his knuckles went white. Still with his head down, he quietly shook at the bars as he kicked the wall between them a number of times. It stopped just as quickly as it started, the violent yet quiet action. The detective calmed down, but still refused to say anything or look at him.

"Prove him wrong Sherlock." He said sadly. "Please… just prove him wrong. If I mean anything to you at all, now's the time to prove it." He watched as his housemate slowly looked up at him, staring for what seemed like an eternity. Finally Sherlock broke eye contact as he turned back to look at the sink. He stared at the object for a number of minutes before his head eventually dropped and moved ever so slightly left to right. He had made his decision and so had John.

"Well I hope you're happy in there by yourself with all your little secrets because they'll be the only friends you'll have."

"John" Sherlock whispered, as he reached his hand through the bars trying to grab hold of his hand.

"Just leave us alone" he said quietly, as he took a step back from the window.

"Fine" Sherlock replied a few moments later, voice as strong as ever. John thought he may have seen a tear fall from the man's face, but he could not be sure as Sherlock turned and made his way back to the mattress, and curled up into a ball facing the wall.

The conversation was over and John was actually relieved. He was too hurt and tired to deal with this flat mate anymore. He lay back down on the narrow bed and closed his eyes. Before he knew it he was fast asleep.


	15. Chapter 15

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

While investigating a seemingly ordinary crime scene, our heroes find themselves in a less than ideal situation. **Warnings for violence and torture***

Disclaimer:

I do not own Sherlock. It all belongs to the BBC and the magnificent Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The original Sherlock Holmes is of course a creation of the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All credit must go to them for the characters. Even though they don't belong to me, I still like to take them out and play with them once in a while… problem is, I don't always play nice…

Authors Notes:

So you get another bonus chapter this week because I have spent the last day and a half off work sick. Sucks to be me, but it's good for you because I did a whole heap of writing.

Oh and also I made a whoopsy a couple of chapters back. I did some research on arson investigations and realised I should have kept the bodies on scene for a bit longer, so that's where they are. Sorry for the confusion, I have gone back and changed it.

* * *

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

- Chapter Fifteen -

* * *

When Dimmock arrived back at the Skyridge Hotel, he was surprised by how different the area looked in the daylight. The scene was crawling with officers from different departments including the fire investigation unit who appeared to be working quite closely with the rest of the team. They were scouring the scene for evidence which looked all but impossible when considering the amount of damage which had been done. As he moved closer to the room where the fire had apparently originated, he began to feel uneasy. The place was a complete mess. The fire had burnt almost everything in sight and the mass amounts of water which had been sprayed on the building had apparently destroyed the rest. He didn't feel quite as confident anymore.

"D.I. Dimmock!" Donovan called as she walked up to meet him, Anderson right behind her. "Any luck with the other officers?"

"Not really" he said disappointedly. "I managed to get a couple of brief descriptions but nothing substantial. What about you?"

"Quite a bit actually. Sergeant Collins was a huge help. I've just been comparing notes with Anderson."

"We'll walk you through it." Anderson said, turning back to what was left of the room.

As Peter stepped forward into the small space, he was hit by just how much of the room was missing. This had clearly been the focus of the blaze and most, if not all of the relevant information on the case would have been lost. Whoever had set the place on fire had been quite thorough.

One of the first things he noticed was the medical examiner crouched down beside a black mass and a second person taking photos. It occurred to him, rather belatedly, that the black mass must have been one of the bodies from the original scene. As they drew closer, he passed something covered in a large blue tarp which he realised later must have contained the remains of the second person.

"This is our unknown victim. From what Raimes and Collins were able to tell me, he was a young male with an apparent gunshot wound to the head. He was wearing cargo pants and a hoodie and was also in possession of a gun. It was believed that he fired most of the shots" Sally informed him.

Looking up from the ground, the medical examiner confirmed the details.

"Victim was indeed dead at the time of the fire and there is evidence of a gunshot wound on his forehead. Victim also appears to be male, as for his age I couldn't be certain."

"Okay thanks George. What can you tell me about the other victim?" he asked.

"Also male, age unknown." The medical examiner started, standing upright and moving over to uncover the body closest to the door. "Cause of death is unknown at this point, but I can tell you that he was also deceased prior to the fire starting. Burn patterns are significantly worse on the other victim. We suspect that the body was exposed to a large amount of fire accelerant, possibly to make it difficult to ID." Peter could feel his optimism drain away as he was left with the harsh reality of the situation.

"Thank you George. Where do you plan on taking the bodies?" He asked numbly.

"Sir? If you don't mind, D.I. Lestrade always preferred St Bart's. Molly Hooper, the pathologist is a friend of his as well as John and Sherlock."

"Fine" he replied quietly.

"St Bart's it is. I'll have them start working on confirming his ID." George replied calmly as he got to his feat and started to organise transport of the two bodies. Peter looked at Donovan with a confused look on his face.

"What does he mean confirm his ID?" Sally gave him a big smile.

"Collins gave us a name."

"You're kidding? Who is he?" He asked excitedly. Maybe the case wasn't completely lost after all.

"Tony Roberts. A Software Designer from Leeds. Lestrade found his wallet." Peter found himself smiling ever so slightly.

"Okay, what else did he give you?"

* * *

He hadn't been able to sleep at all after his encounter with John and Lestrade. He had tried to, his body screamed for it but as usual his overstimulated brain wouldn't allow it. After lying curled in a ball for a short time, he found he could not keep still. Thoughts and memories zoomed around his head at lightning speeds, playing on his weaknesses and his feelings. After a while it became too much and he decided to get up. He jumped around the room a few times, trying to recover some of the feeling in his legs but he lasted less than a minute before exhaustion caused him to stop. He made use of the small number of facilities in the cell, even managing to clean his face up a little bit. After that, he spent a couple of minutes inspecting the poorly hidden recording device, before he resorted to counting the number of bars in each cell. Eventually he found himself back on the mattress curled into a ball, quietly shivering and wishing for sleep.

He was finally drifting off, when he heard the door to his cell open and a number of people walk in. He was still curled up on his side, trying to regain some of his lost body heat. They didn't say anything at first but he could hear them moving closer. Something told him that he should move or at the very least acknowledge that they were there, but he found that he just didn't have the energy. Without warning, he felt a couple of hands grab at his left foot and he was quickly pulled off the bed, smashing his head against the concrete floor as he was dragged into the centre of the room.

"I don't remember saying you could sleep!" Frank snarled.

"Well I don't remember you saying that I couldn't either" he replied groggily.

"There's that smart mouth I was telling you about." Jatz said moving into view. "That mouth will get you into a lot of trouble you know?"

"So I've been told".

"Right, onto business" Frank said, cutting in. "The boss has given us a number of instructions; do you want to know what they are?"

"Not particularly."

"He told us that we had to make sure we gave you something to eat and that you were settled in for the night. The thing is, he then gave us two different interpretations of what that might look like. So once again it's down to you Mr Holmes. What sort of night do you plan on havin'?"

Sherlock stayed quiet, wishing that whatever it was they were going to do, they would just hurry up and get it over with.

"Are you going to start helping us?"

"No"

"So be it." The man replied calmly, before all three men were suddenly on him once more.

He groaned as he felt the hands remove his shoes and socks, before moving onto his coat and jacket. He had started to put up a fight, but after receiving a punch to the face, he gave up. He was outnumbered three to one. It didn't matter what he did, they were going to win. He felt a pang of regret when they took his long, thick coat away. He was actually angry at himself for allowing it to happen. He should have known better. Should have see it coming and taken it off, hidden it somewhere. It would have come in handy later on.

With half of his clothing now gone, Sherlock could feel himself being dragged up into a squatting position with his back towards the side wall, facing John and Lestrade's cell. He was almost glad when he saw no sign of them, hopefully they were just sleeping. He could feel a hand on his head pushing it towards the ground, as his two arms were twisted painfully behind his back and up towards the ceiling. It was only then that he heard the sound of the power drill.

At first his mind flashed back to images of John, sitting in a chair screaming. His breathing started to increase slightly as he pictured a hole being drilled into numerous places on his body. Thankfully no pain was forthcoming as he heard the sound of metal boring into solid concrete. His hands were secured in metal cuffs, which were in turn attached to lengths of chain. His arms were pulled painfully upwards until he could feel all the muscles in his shoulders and across his upper back strain. It was only when he thought his arms were on the verge of dislocation that the pull finally stopped and the chains were secured. He tried to remain still, but could not help the tremors which ran through his body. His situation was not looking good and this started to concern him a little.

"Have a good night" Frank addressed him cheerfully. "We'll come back to check on ya a bit later, you know, tuck ya in and all that. Wanna make sure you're real comfortable on your first night here."

His concern only grew after that. It would appear that he would be stuck in this position for the foreseeable future, with no way to release the tension in his muscles and no way to keep warm.

"Oh! And I almost forgot…" Frank said with a smile, as he turned back towards him. There on the floor, right below his head and in front of his face, Frank placed a wrapped muesli bar. "Enjoy!"

He listened to them leave with a pile of his clothes, laughing as they went. He couldn't help but feel incredibly angry with himself. Allowing himself to be caught like that was just plain stupid. He should have sat up when they came in. He should have taken off his coat before lying down. Of course they were going to take it away after finding him like that!

"Stupid! Out of all the stupid… idiotic… arrrgh!" He growled with frustration.

With his shoes and coat gone, he now had nothing to keep him warm and his body shook dramatically, pulling painfully against his restrained arms.

"Sherlock… are you okay?"

* * *

He awoke with a start and if the sudden movement next to him was anything to go by, he guessed that Greg had too. The sound made his blood run cold. It was a sound he had hoped never to hear again; it was the sound of a drill coming from the cell next door.

John scrambled to his feet and ran over to the window separating the two cells just in time to see all three of X's men holding Sherlock in a squatting position by the side wall. His arms were twisted painfully behind his back and pulled up and out to either side. They appeared to be trying to secure his wrists to the wall using bolts, chain and metal cuffs. Sherlock remained still and silent, with his head facing the ground. John couldn't see his face, but he did observe the occasional tremor which ran through the man's body. Some part of him wanted to call out, to see if he was ok but another part of him was glad to see the detective in some discomfort for once.

As the chains were pulled and locked into place, Sherlock made a small grunting noise, his arms pulled tightly up and out, effectively forcing him to stay in his current position – squatting with his head down.

The three men, satisfied with their work, gathered up all their tools as well as Sherlock's big coat, jacket and shoes and started to leave.

"Have a good night" Frank addressed Sherlock cheerfully. "We'll come back to check on ya a bit later, you know tuck ya in and all that. Wanna make sure you're real comfortable on your first night here." They turned and started to walk back out.

"Oh! And I almost forgot…" Frank turned and placed a wrapped muesli bar on the ground, right in front of Sherlock's face. "Enjoy!"

He felt a little bad for the detective. It was just cruel, taunting him like that. He could hear Rusty snigger just outside the cell door, Sherlock however did not rise to the bait. The door was soon locked and the three men disappeared down the corridor. Once they were gone, he heard Sherlock growl in frustration.

"Stupid!"

"Sherlock?" John asked quietly.

"Out of all the stupid… idiotic… arrrgh!"

He started to pull at the chains, no doubt testing his range of movements and finding they were very limited. After a few moments he settled again with a weak groan.

He glanced over at Lestrade who was also staring at the now chained man, mixed feelings written all over his face. He knew how he felt. Sherlock had hurt them, but he still didn't want to see any harm come to him; to anyone for that matter.

'_I guess that's what makes us different' _he thought numbly to himself.

"Sherlock" He repeated a little louder, "are you okay?"

"I thought you didn't care anymore." The man replied bitterly, then refused to say another word.

* * *

He was feeling a lot better about the case after meeting with Donovan. The notes she was able to provide from the two officers she interviewed, were a big help in the disaster zone, known as their current crime scene. Collins' sketches had matched quite accurately with what was left of the area, so they decided to use it as a base tool to help them rebuild the scene. An ID of the first victim, and a detailed description of the second, meant that they were on their way to sorting out who the two men were and why they were there. It was Collins' insights into the case however, that were proving most useful. He had talked to Lestrade; they had formulated theories which would no doubt prove invaluable to their investigation. It was believed that the two men had shot each other and yet there was only one gun found at the location.

Anderson's team had managed to dig a bullet out of one of the walls, which was being sent off to Ballistics as they spoke. The bodies were on their way to St Bart's where they were sure to recover more bullets from the two victims. It was curious though, there only being one gun, where had the other one gone?

"Donovan, did Collins mention any conversation he may have had with Lestrade surrounding the missing gun?"

"Only that they talked about it. Apparently Lestrade didn't want to speculate too much before the forensics team got there." He nodded. "Although he did seem to have his own theory on the matter." she continued.

"Go on then."

"Well when he was down stairs, just before they were attacked; he was talking to the manager about the room the victim had booked. Apparently this Roberts, despite checking in alone, specifically asked for a twin room, not a single."

"Or a double" he added. "So he's thinking there was another person staying there?" Sally nodded.

"Did the manager ever see anyone else with the man?"

"That's the thing, apparently not and they didn't have surveillance cameras to check on it either."

"What sort of hotel doesn't have cameras in this day and age?"

"Apparently their system went down a few weeks ago and they hadn't got around to fixing it yet."

"Okay" he said with a sigh, "so what you're saying is that there's no way to know for sure one way or the another."

"No sir."

"Wonderful."

"What would you like me to do now?" She asked eagerly.

He looked at her closely for a minute. She looked tired, run down. He quickly did the maths and realised that they had both been without sleep for over a day already.

"Go home" he said at last.

"Sorry?"

"Go home Donovan and get some sleep."

"Sir, with respect…"

"I don't want to hear it Donovan. There's nothing more you can do right now anyway. Leeds P.D. are running leads on our suspected victim, the bodies would have only just arrived at St Barts and all of the other evidence is still on route to the station. It will be several hours before we know anything so go home, get some sleep and I'll call you if I need you."

Sally looked like she was going to argue, but after a moment she slowly nodded in defeat.

"Yes sir."

"I mean it, get some sleep. There's no use us both wandering around like zombies."

A few minutes later, Sally had gone and he wondered whether he should be following his own advice. As it was he had been up for just as long as she had and it was true when he said that there was not a lot that could be done right now. He decided at the very least, that he would go home and take a shower, maybe even grab something half decent to eat before checking on how things were going.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Reviews are love.**


	16. Chapter 16

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

While investigating a seemingly ordinary crime scene, our heroes find themselves in a less than ideal situation. **Warnings for violence and torture***

Disclaimer:

I do not own Sherlock. It all belongs to the BBC and the magnificent Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The original Sherlock Holmes is of course a creation of the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All credit must go to them for the characters. Even though they don't belong to me, I still like to take them out and play with them once in a while… problem is, I don't always play nice…

Authors Notes:

Thanks for the all reviews you wonderful people.

For everyone wondering when things will start to get better for the guys… I hate to break it to you, but things get significantly worse before they get any better… on that slight spoiler, let's get on with the story!

* * *

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

- Chapter Sixteen -

* * *

It took Sally around half an hour to get back to her small apartment on the outskirts of town. By the time she finally walked through her front door, she was half asleep. Stumbling into the kitchen, she made herself a quick sandwich before changing into a t-shirt and track pants. It was only as a second thought that she dug out her phone and the small card which she had been given earlier that morning. With some hesitation, she dialled the number and waited only a second before Mycroft Holmes answered.

"Sergeant Donovan, what can I do for you?"

"Just thought I'd let you know that we have recovered some evidence from where the men were abducted and it's being sent off for testing as we speak. So far we don't have any leads on the kidnapping itself, however we now believe that it was a part of a murder cover-up."

"Yes a double homicide if I'm not mistaken." She was once again taken aback by just how much this man seemed to know about the details of the case.

"Exactly… We believe that by solving the first crime, it will lead us to the people responsible for taking your brother and the others."

"I understand, and how is that investigation progressing?"

"Well one of the officers on scene was able to give us an ID for one of the victims, so we're following that up. Hopefully we should get confirmation by morning."

"I see, and what was this victim's name Ms Donovan?"

Sally paused. It was one thing to update Sherlock's brother on how the case was going; it was another thing entirely to share specific information. As if reading her mind, Mycroft gave a long and pained sigh.

"I assure you Sergeant that this is information I will know within the hour, regardless of whether it is you who tells me. The benefit of me knowing this information now, is that I can start running my own enquiries straight away, rather than having to wait to hear it from my other sources."

Sally thought about this for a second. He did seem to know a lot about the case already and he had been extremely useful in providing hard to access information. Surely it wouldn't hurt having someone else track this man down. After another minute's hesitation, she reluctantly answered.

"His name is Tony Roberts, he was a Software Designer from Leeds."

"Thank you Sergeant" Mycroft Holmes replied before hanging up.

Deciding that she had experienced enough stress and worry for one day, she slipped into bed and closed her eyes. It was warm and comfortable and she could not help but wonder how Lestrade and the others were spending their night; that is of course if they were still… _'Don't be daft, of course they are! Don't think like that!'_ she scolded herself.

Pushing the thought aside, she cleared her mind and allowed the calm of sleep carry her away.

* * *

He had been at home less than hour, when Peter Dimmock decided to check in to see how the case was progressing. When he was assured by all departments that they would have nothing for him in the next several hours at the earliest, he made a decision to call it a night; but not before barking off several more orders to various members of the investigation team. With several hours of daylight still remaining, he sent a small team to Lestrade's flat and another to 221B Baker Street. The idea was to search for any sign that this was anything other than a crime scene cover up. As detectives, Sherlock and Lestrade had helped put a lot of bad people away; maybe one of them had come back to bite them. There was a chance that the two crimes were not connected at all. Perhaps it was mere coincidence that they were taken from the hotel when they were. It was not very likely, but not completely out of the question.

He gave the teams instructions to search for evidence of any threats they may have received and to look for individuals who may be holding a grudge. This included searching both John and Sherlock's webpage's as well as Lestrade's case files. He was not very hopeful that they would find anything but it made him feel better knowing that there were people still actively looking into the case and not just sitting back and waiting. Satisfied that he had done all he could for now, he settled down for the night, hoping that the morning would bring new information.

* * *

Sherlock had been strung up against the wall for what seemed like hours, and most of that time had been spent in silence. They had tried to talk to him, ask if he was okay but the man would not speak. In fact he had barely made a sound at all, except for the occasional grunt or groan. As a result, John and Lestrade had spent a lot of their time re-checking their wounds. For John, this meant finally seeing the damage done to his shoulder. Greg had helped to take off his shirt and remove the bandages, as he was both unable and unwilling to do it himself. Once the dressings were off, it had taken him a few more seconds before he got the courage to look down at which point he immediately wished he hadn't.

His shoulder was a mess. The flesh had been torn to shreds around the entrance to the small hole and the entire area was bright red. With all pressure now removed from his shoulder, he watched a small trickle of blood fall from the small gap and run down his chest. He took a deep breath and gently moved his right hand to inspect the severity of the wound. He had to force himself to focus only on the injury; detach himself from the memory of how it got there and think instead of how he would treat it. He was a doctor and this was an injured shoulder. That was it, nothing else. The fact that it was his own shoulder shouldn't come into it at all, but it did.

The most difficult obstacle he had to contend with, other than the pain, was that he couldn't look at the damage done to his back. He tried to feel for it with his hand but pulled away with a hiss when he accidentally probed the wrong part too hard. After a few tries he gave up trying to do it himself, instead asking Greg a series of different questions, which was only moderately helpful. In the end there was nothing else he could do to the arm other than bandage it back up again. The bleeding was controlled and the area around the site was as clean as it was going to get under the circumstances. With Lestrade's help, he was able to reduce the amount of cloth they used to re-bandage the wound and with the remaining strips of fabric; he was able to make a temporary sling. He slipped his left wrist through the small loop he had created in the thin strip and had Lestrade tie both ends of the material around his neck. It helped his pain considerably, taking the majority of the weight off his injured shoulder. Feeling as though he had accomplished quite a lot in the small amount of time, he had just started contemplating examining Greg's fingers again, when he once again heard the dreaded sounds of footsteps.

The visit was expected but it still unnerved him every time one of those men got anywhere near him. It was a bit of a surprise when they did finally appear because instead of the usual trio, this time there were only two; Frank and another man to whom he had never seen before. They stopped right outside their door and looked in at them with a look of pure delight.

"Here" Frank said, throwing in two muesli bars, similar to the one still sitting in front of Sherlock. "Bon Appétit" he said with a grin before moving onto the next cell.

Ignoring the two bars, John moved over to the window to watch as the two men entered Sherlock's cell and walked straight up to the chained man.

"Ohhhh didn't you want the food?" Frank said with a mocking whine as he picked the small bar up off the ground.

"No it's Apricot, I'm not a big fan" Sherlock replied casually.

"Well that's a shame; I'll remember that for next time. I'd hate for it to go to waste thought." Frank said as he sat down on the floor in front of the restrained man and proceeded to eat the bar right in front of him.

* * *

He had been staring at the muesli bar for hours trying to figure out a way to get at the small treat. He didn't usually eat very much, but after not having eaten for over 24 hours, he was well and truly hungry. So when Frank came back in and took the small bar away, he felt what could almost be described as a moment of despair, before he was able to shake it off. He had gone longer than 24 hours without food before, it was no big deal.

"It's Apricot, I'm not a big fan" he said to the man, trying to appear uninterested but Frank saw right through it. As if proving a point, the man sat down right in front him and began to eat it. Chewing at the muesli slowly and commenting on just how good it was. He tried not to watch, tried not to let it get to him but it did. His arms pulled uncomfortably as he continued to shiver almost uncontrollably. His legs ached as did his arms and neck.

"Who's your friend?" He asked, trying to take his mind off the food slowly being consumed right in front of him.

"None of your business" Frank snapped suddenly, getting back to his feet and walking over to the wall just left of him. It was then that he also noticed the new man duck down on his right hand side, as if checking something behind him. Without warning and at almost the same time, he felt sharp blades dig into the soles of his feet, starting from as far forward as they could reach and continuing backwards through his heel. The cuts felt deep and the pressure from his body weight was making them spit wide open. He growled loudly through his teeth, trying to ignore the painful sting.

"Well goodnight Mr Holmes, we shall see you in the morning." Frank said cheerfully.

"Sleep tight, don't let the bed bugs bite" chimed the second man. Sherlock decided he didn't like this new guy at all - he had a creepy feel to him, just like Frank and Rusty did.

Lestrade had tried to talk to him again after the two men had left, but he refused to respond. For one he didn't trust himself not to say anything while the voice recorder was still running and also because he didn't want to. Their words had upset him and he didn't want to deal with that on top of his current problem. Even he could only take so much at one time so he decided to focus on himself for a while. It was about ten minutes after deciding that he wouldn't talk to the men next door, when he found himself doing just that. He couldn't help but listen in on their conversations occasionally. He didn't necessarily intend to, but they were all sharing a small space. Normally he would try to tune out their useless conversations, but this one in particular caught his attention and really pissed him off.

"We need to try and figure out how we can get out of here." Greg said quietly to John, "how many men have you seen in this place? Do you know any of the layout?"

"I've only seen the four from the other room and then that new guy just now. Other than that, I haven't seen much; I've been unconscious most of the times they've moved me." John replied.

"Alright, so we have at least five men, three in particular we would need to keep a look out for…"

"Will you shut up?!" He yelled with true annoyance. What the hell was John doing? Only a couple of hours ago he had told the doctor about the recording device and now he was letting Lestrade discuss possible escape plans!

Both rooms had gone awkwardly silent, before the conversation started up again at the same volume.

"We need to try and find out more about this new guy…"

"John!" He called out to the doctor.

"What is it?" came the tired reply.

"Can you come and look at something for me?" He looked up at the window and saw John slowly move into view.

"What is it?" He asked again with a sigh.

"This" Sherlock said motioning his head towards the sink. John followed his gaze and paused, eyes opening slightly wider, before closing them in realisation. How on earth he had forgotten about the recorder he would never know.

"Do you think the bleeding has _stopped_?" He asked, putting emphasis on the word 'stop'. John gave him a small nod, before glancing at his feet and replying sadly "Not yet, but it's slowing down."

The two continued to look at each other before his shoulders decided that enough was enough and his head fell back down towards the floor. He listened as John joined Lestrade back on the mattress, but instead of continuing their talk on escape, John was quick to inform the Inspector of his overwhelming need to sleep and assured him that they would talk about it in the morning. Lestrade seemed to accept the excuse rather easily and in no time at all, he could hear the changes in their breathing. They had both fallen asleep, leaving him to face the long cold night alone.

* * *

Peter had been fast asleep when a loud ringing had startled him awake. Looking around the dark room in confusion, it took a moment for him to realise that the noise was coming from his mobile phone. Feeling blindly in dark, he found the offending object and glanced at the bright screen in front of him. It was from the station. His heart skipped as he answered the call and croaked an uncertain greeting.

"Hello?"

"D.I. Dimmock, this is Jenkins. Sorry to wake you sir, but we have some information you'll want to hear."

"What time is it?" He asked drowsily as he grabbed at the small alarm clock next to his bed.

"It's about 7.30 sir." Less than four hours sleep, no wonder he was still so tired.

"What is it Jenkins?"

"Leeds Police Department got back to us a little while ago. They can't find any record of a Tony Roberts living in the area. They did a search on all the IT Software Designer Firms; no one has anyone by that name in their books. A few have people in London but they have all been accounted for. No reports for missing people either, here or there."

Dimmock sat up, now very much awake.

"Shit... Okay, we'll have to go back and check the details with Sergeant Collins; he must have got it wrong."

"One step ahead of you sir, Collin's is adamant about the name, apparently there were numerous ID's in the wallet all with that name and the dead man's photo."

"Okay" he said with a sigh. "I want you to send the name and description out nationwide. Maybe he recently moved or changed jobs, I don't know; just get the name out there to as many stations as you can. We need to find out who the hell this guy is! If we have to wait on DNA it will take us days!"

"We'll get on it right now."

"Okay good, ring me if you find anything else."

"Yes sir." The call ended and Peter flopped his head back on the pillow. It was like everything was working against them, they just could not catch a break. It was nearing the 24 hour mark since the three men had been taken and he didn't even want to think about what could be happening to them right now. Unable to get back to sleep, he found himself checking the time every ten minutes. When the clock finally ticked over to 9pm, he'd had enough and took half a sleeping pill, hoping that no one would ring him for the next six hours. Within twenty minutes, the Inspector was fast asleep.

* * *

He was woken suddenly, when something hard and solid hit him in the face. He grabbed at the area just right of his mouth and jerked away from the perceived danger, only to find himself rolling off the mattress and hitting the floor. Looking over in the direction of his would be attacker, he saw John twitching and throwing his head around. By the look of it, the man was having a particularly bad nightmare and had accidentally kicked him in the face. Picking himself up off the ground, he moved to sit next to the doctor to try and calm him down. He was making pathetic crying noises and it sounded as if he was calling out to someone. At one point he heard the words "please" and "stop" and very occasionally both his and Sherlock's names. It was absolutely heartbreaking and after a few minutes of trying to calm him down, he decided it was best to wake him up. His whole body twitched and jerked like he was having a fit and he worried that he would do some damage to his already injured arm.

"John!" He called quite loudly, but the thrashing continued "John wake up!" He called again, this time grabbing at his right arm and giving it a shake. It took about 30 seconds to wake the man and when he did, John sat up for a moment completely disorientated and confused.

"Greg?" he asked breathing heavily.

"Yeah mate, you're okay, you were just having a nightmare. Everything is fine, go back to sleep."

John sighed and fell back down against the mattress. He was still breathing quite heavily and he had perspiration running down his forehead. He watched over his friend as his breathing slowly levelled out and returned to normal. His eyes slowly closed and he was asleep once more. Lestrade continued to watch him, too rattled to do anything else. He was hesitant to lie back down and go to sleep again in case John had another nightmare. He wanted to be there for him and he didn't want to get kicked in the head again. He decided he would sit up with him for a while just in case.

_Beep_

He looked around the cell for a moment confused. He didn't know if it was real or if he had imagined it. He waited a few more seconds, but did not hear anything. Deciding that the stress was finally getting to him, he got up and walked over to the sink. He turned on the tap and made a small cup with his hands, drinking the water which fell from the faucet. That was when he heard it again.

_Beep_

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Reviews are welcome. **

**More angst next week : )**


	17. Chapter 17

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

While investigating a seemingly ordinary crime scene, our heroes find themselves in a less than ideal situation.

**Warnings for violence and torture***

Disclaimer:

I do not own Sherlock. It all belongs to the BBC and the magnificent Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The original Sherlock Holmes is of course a creation of the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All credit must go to them for the characters. Even though they don't belong to me, I still like to take them out and play with them once in a while… problem is, I don't always play nice…

Authors Notes:

Thanks for everyone who continues to follow and support this story. I can't do it without you!

A longer chapter this week, cause it's a little less exciting than usual (it needed to be done though – think of it as the calm before the storm…)

* * *

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

- Chapter Seventeen -

* * *

With the ceiling lights still burning, his perception of time was long gone. He had no idea how long he had been stuck there, chained to the wall but he found that after a while his mind started to wander in and out of awareness. He began to treasure the times where he would 'zone out'; become mentally absent, where nothing could hurt him. When he was away in that other place, it was like he was floating. He could feel nothing, hear nothing; like a star suspended in space.

It was always a bit of a shock when he emerged from these periods of nothingness and was faced with his true reality. He didn't particularly like the real world anymore; and he would feel his emotions start to slip if he stayed for too long. He was exhausted, near freezing and his arms were on fire. The only change was that his feet no longer hurt; in fact he couldn't feel them at all. On top of that, he was still alone. For some reason he didn't think it would be so hard if he wasn't by himself. John and Lestrade had been asleep for a long time, which is why it was such a shock when he heard John mutter his name.

He listened carefully as John made a few more undistinguishable noises followed by a long pained moan. At first he was alarmed, thinking that maybe someone had gotten in there. His slow and sluggish mind eventually deduced that John was in fact having a nightmare and it wasn't too difficult to guess what it was about.

"Stop…"

John groaned a few more times, his breathing getting faster. His voice became distressed as he let out a muffled cry. It went on for some time, getting louder and more desperate the longer it continued.

"Sherlock…"

It was like a punch to the chest. He could hear John's whimpers and the occasional hitch of his breath. It was like a different form of torture; slow and sadistic. It had been bad enough when the scene had re-played itself in the freezer, but now he was reliving the entire episode again, this time with sound effects.

"Please…"

"_Still nothing?" X asked before turning back to John with a shrug. "Sorry doctor, he doesn't seem interested." _

_The drill started up for a second time._

"_Sherlock..." said a quiet, shaky voice. "Sherlock… please…" _

"_I was BEGGING for your help Sherlock, and you know what you did? You looked away… You looked away Sherlock... You were my best friend... How could you do that to me?"_

He felt the tears slowly fall down his face as he listened to his friend's anguished cries for the second time that day. He watched the small drops land and splatter on the floor as he tried not to picture what they had done to him. He wanted to yell out, make it all stop but thankfully he didn't have to. Before too long, he heard Lestrade's pained yelp as the man became alert once more. He could hear the Inspector whispering comforting and calming words to the doctor, but it didn't appear to make a difference. After a while he could hear him calling John's name and eventually the man came to with a start.

"Greg?" John asked, breathing heavily.

"Yeah mate. You're okay, you were just having a nightmare. Everything is fine, go back to sleep."

He heard his housemate sigh again but no more words were said between the two of them. Eventually John's harsh and heavy breathing evened out as the man fell back into sleep, and Sherlock was surprised by how incredibly relieved he was to have the silence back.

A few more uneventful minutes passed before a new sound entered his psyche.

_Beep _

At first he thought he had imagined it but a few minutes later he heard the noise again.

_Beep_

He wondered if this was some new addition to his slow torture. Restrain him so he can't move; take away his clothes so he slowly freezes, and then drive him crazy with incessant beeping.

"Did you hear that?" Lestrade asked, although he wasn't sure if it was directed at him or just the universe in general. A few minutes later and it happened again.

_Beep_

"What _is_ that?" Lestrade asked again, this time sounding annoyed. He had to admit he couldn't quite figure it out himself. Just another puzzle for his sleep deprived brain.

"Sherlock can you hear that?" Hearing his name caught him off guard a little, and he was slow to reply.

"What?" he mumbled, slightly alarmed with how weak his voice sounded.

Lestrade didn't respond and after a few moments had passed in silence, he twisted his head upwards to find the Inspector standing at the window studying at him.

"How are you holding up?" Lestrade asked quietly after a minute, a sombre look on his face.

"Great" he managed to mumble out before letting his head drop back to the floor. He thought Lestrade was about to say something else when they were distracted once more.

_Beep_

"There it is again! Can you hear that?!" the Inspector asked almost hysterically. He nodded slightly in response. "Do you know what it is?"

"No" he mumbled and the truth was he didn't.

"It sounds a little bit like my laptop when the battery is running out" Lestrade continued. "Or maybe a phone… You don't still have your phone do you?" He asked excitedly but Sherlock stayed silent, as a particularly fierce shiver ran through his body. "Of course you don't, that was stupid. Still it begs the question, what the hell is it. Maybe it's a smoke detector out in the hall. They always beep when the batteries are dying."

'_Batteries! Of course! It must be the voice recorder going flat' _he suddenly realised, annoyed with how long the simple mystery had taken him to solve.

_Beep_

Not that it really mattered. It was not like he could do anything about the irritating noise and he wouldn't be able to tell Lestrade anything until it stopped. In the meantime he would just have to listen to the man's numerous theories. It was annoying but truth be told, he preferred it over the lonely silence.

After about ten minutes, Lestrade had given up speculating on what the sound could be and the room went quiet. Eventually the beeping sound stopped and the two waited in silence for something to happen. Nothing did.

"I think it stopped." Lestrade said quietly after several minutes.

"Mmmm batteries ran out" he mumbled in reply.

"I thought you didn't know what it was." He sounded annoyed.

"I figured it out."

"What was it then? It was a smoke detector wasn't it?"

"No"

"What was it then?"

"Recorder"

"What recorder?"

"Ask John tomorrow… Go to sleep Lestrade." And to his surprise the Inspector did just that.

He only wished that he could do the same…

* * *

Sally arrived back at the station by 4.30 the next morning, eager to rejoin the investigation. The team had been on a high when she left the previous afternoon, having collected some good information and a new lead. As soon as she entered the building however, she could instantly tell that things had taken a turn for the worse during the night. A sense of hopelessness had descended over the office, people looked tired and frustrated.

"What have I missed?" She asked a very dejected looking Jenkins.

"God, I don't even know where to start" he replied, the stress clear in his voice. "It seems like everything we find is leading to a dead end."

"Well what have we found so far?"

"The boys have finished going through the CCTV footage provided by your mystery source and we have no clue as to where they were taken. We were able to trace the van from the hotel to Shepherd's Bush, but lost it as it headed further west. We searched all the footage we could find from around Uxbridge where the mobile phones were discovered but it came up empty. We sent out a forensic team to the warehouse but they were unable to find anything other than a few tyre treads. With nothing to compare them too, we won't know if the van visited the area or whether the phones were dumped by another vehicle." Jenkins said with a tired sigh. "We did manage to find footage of the van as it passed through Chesham heading northwest, but that was several hours after the last known sighting, we don't know what happened during that missing time. We've sent word out to the local Bobbies to start searching the area in between the two locations as soon as the sun comes up. I've also put out a bulletin to keep a look out for the van, but we've have had no luck so far."

"It might be worth putting out an official statement, get the public involved." Sally said, slightly disheartened with what she was hearing.

"It's a good idea; maybe they can help find our mystery man too."

"What do you mean?" she asked confused.

"This Tony Roberts character; apparently he doesn't exist. Leeds PD can't find any record of him and there has been no one with his name or description employed in IT or reported as missing in the Leeds area. We've been back to Sergeant Collins and he is positive about the name, so we have sent the details out to the whole of Britain looking for the guy." Sally sighed deeply. Already she was feeling a headache coming on; and to think, she had been so hopeful when she got out of bed this morning.

"Anything else?" She asked miserably, suddenly understanding why everyone looked so despondent.

"Ballistic report came back. The bullets pulled from the wall and the first victim is a match to the gun found on the scene by victim number two. The third bullet was fired from a second unknown pistol. Gun at the scene is unregistered; serial number has been filed off."

"So it's untraceable?"

"Yeah, it's untraceable. Any fingerprint evidence has been destroyed which leads me to our next problem… The fire damage to the bodies was so extensive, that fingerprints are out of the question and with no idea of who our two victims are, our only option for identification is through DNA testing, which I have been informed will take a minimum of three days."

"We don't have three days to waste on this!"

"I know, but the lab is backed up at the moment."

"Did you tell them that this is a priority situation?"

"Yes ma'am and they are doing what they can. Keep in mind these tests usually take over a week." Donovan groaned.

"You're right this is a nightmare."

Jenkins silently nodded. "Would this be a bad time to also mention that Harriet Watson rang at about 7pm last night? I told her that we were still working hard on the case, but she asked for you to give her an update when you got in this morning."

"Great, just what I need. Is Dimmock in?"

"Not yet, he went home to get some sleep. I'm expecting him in soon."

"Well let's put something together to give to the media, we'll get Dimmock to look it over when he gets in. With any luck we can make the six o'clock news, catch people on the TV and radio as they start getting ready for work. The sooner the descriptions are out there, the better chance we have of finding something."

"Sure thing, I'll sit down with one of the media liaison guys right now."

A few seconds later and Sally was left standing alone in the middle of a very busy, yet quiet office block, some part of her wishing she had stayed at home. Rubbing at her forehead she walked towards the small kitchen area to make herself another cup of coffee. She had been there less than ten minutes and already it was turning into another day from hell. Just how had things managed to go so pear shape overnight? They were back to having absolutely nothing. As much as she hated to admit it, the only three people who could get this case moving again, where the same three people they were currently looking for. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

John awoke the next morning with a full bladder, an aching arm and a growling stomach. Unfortunately there was not a lot he could do about his arm but as he lay on the mattress looking up at the ceiling, his mind drifted to the thought of the remaining muesli bar hidden beneath them. It was so temping to pull it out, but he and Greg had both made the decision to save it. Somehow just the knowledge that it was within arm's reach was making his stomach growl louder. His bladder, thankfully, was a problem he could solve and a few minutes later, he found himself doing just that.

His body felt stiff all over, making it painful to move. The thin mattress had done nothing to help his aching muscles. Wondering how Sherlock was holding up, he moved over to the window and peered through the bars. The man looked a right mess. Dried blood covered the floor around his feet and his head hung like a rag doll. He did not move, even the shivering had stopped. John had to look closely to see that the man was indeed still breathing.

"Morning John" he heard a quiet voice croak.

He turned to look towards Greg, but found the man still sleeping. He turned back to Sherlock, realising that the noise must have come from him.

"Hey" he said guiltily. Here he was complaining about being hungry and sore; he could only imagine how Sherlock was feeling after being forced into that position all night. Sherlock didn't normally eat very often and looking back to the day they were abducted, he could only remember the detective having a couple of pieces of toast. That meant that the man had probably been without food for close to 48 hours and who knew how much sleep he had in that time.

"You doing okay?" he asked sadly, receiving a humorous huff in reply.

He looked back down at Greg and saw the man slowly sit up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"You alright?" he asked John groggily.

He just nodded. Even though he felt like hell, he was still fine all things considered. In fact, in the new light of morning, he seemed much better off than the man next door. Sleep had allowed him to recharge, he felt stronger and less emotional. He was able to think more clearly than he had the previous day; and he was a little more open of the idea of talking to Sherlock again. Even if the man still refused to talk to them, the least he could do was give him a break. He was still going through a fair amount of shit without the two of them adding to it.

"Sherlock listen" he started to say but was cut off almost immediately.

"Not now John" Sherlock replied wearily.

He stood there confused for a second before he realised that a number of footsteps were approaching. He instinctively took a few steps further away, as he watched Jatz come into view and unlock the detective's door. He was followed by a very irritable looking Rusty who marched right up to Sherlock, grabbed the man's hair and jerked his head backwards.

"Morning sunshine" The older man sneered before spitting in the detective's face and throwing his head back towards the ground. It was done with such force, that his flatmates arms pulled further on the restrains causing a pained moan to escape his lips. Rusty took a couple of steps around him and started to fiddle with the chains holding Sherlock to the wall. He spared a glance at Jatz who had moved further into the room over by the basin, his hands searching for something, most likely the recorder.

John watched as the younger man removed a small black stick from the area under the sink and slipped it into his pocket. The whole thing must have taken less than ten seconds, as he slipped back to Sherlock's side almost unnoticed. Releasing the man from the restraints should have been a quick and easy task, but the two men appeared to be having great pleasure in causing the man additional pain. Sherlock for his part did not play along, and while his face screwed up in considerable discomfort, the man refused to make a sound other than the occasional grunt.

He watched quietly as the two men finally released Sherlock's arms from the wall, both dropping to the floor like lead weights. Sherlock had tried to maintain his balance but found himself pitched forward instead, landing face first onto the cold ground.

"Get up!" Rusty growled but Sherlock remained still; either unwilling or unable to move.

"I said get up!" He repeated more loudly this time, emphasising his point with a heavy boot to the man's ribs. Sherlock grunted and tried to manoeuvre himself into a kneeling position. His face looked weary yet focused in concentration, like he had to think about every movement. Rusty soon got impatient and grabbed hold of Sherlock's arms pulling him upwards.

John thought for a second that it may be a trick; a clever deception by the detective who at any moment would spring around and stage a daring rescue. Instead Sherlock's knees buckled and he started to fall sideways. Jatz stepped forward to catch him before he could slam into the concrete again. Both he and Lestrade watched in shock as they dragged his sagging body out of sight leaving the two of them alone once more.

"Wonder what they're going to do with him" he muttered quietly to himself before a wave of nausea hit him and he had to sit down. How could this still be happening? Where the hell was everyone?

* * *

John and Greg did not talk much after they had taken Sherlock away, each lost in his own thoughts. Occasionally one of them would voice one of those thoughts out loud and they would talk for a little while, but they were usually questions that neither of them could accurately answer anyway.

"How long do you think we've been here?" He asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

"Ahhh I don't know." Greg replied almost confused.

"It was pretty late when you called us, what 11 o'clock? I remember because I was looking at my watch every five minutes. Sherlock was in the middle of giving me one of his 'very important scientific lectures on the life cycle of maggots if I remember correctly. 20 minutes in and I was looking for any reason to get the hell away from him…" His voice trailed off and his throat went dry as he looked out in the direction that the men had taken his flatmate. He could only imagine what they were doing to him and it was not a nice thought.

"Okay , so say you rocked up, what? Quarter past? So let's say we were taken around 11:30." Lestrade said quickly, trying to change the subject and take John's mind off something neither one of them wanted to think about.

"I suppose."

"My guess is that they questioned us all that night and a fair slice into the next day before they called it quits." John silently nodded in agreement as he counted the number of hours in his head. "So this would be the start of day two…" Lestrade trailed off, as if hearing the words suddenly made them real.

"Around 32/33 hours by my count" he replied miserably. "Where the hell is everyone? They would have to know we're missing by now, what's taking them so long?!" He demanded, looking at Lestrade as if he held some psychic link to the rest of the Police Force.

"I have no idea" the inspector replied despondently before suddenly changing the topic. "Hey an interesting thing happened last night. I heard a weird noise."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, sort of a strange beeping sound. It went on for ages, it was driving me crazy. I convinced myself after a while that it was probably a smoke detector going flat but when it eventually stopped, Sherlock told me it was a recorder and that I should ask you about it." John froze, "any idea what he was talking about?"

"Did he say anything else?" he asked almost frantically.

"No, he just told me that I should ask you about it in the morning and then he told me to go to sleep." John nodded once again, disappointed. "So you do know what he's talking about?"

"Yesterday when they brought him back in the room and we were all talking he told me that there was a voice recorder hidden in his cell."

"What?! When? I can't remember hearing that!"

"Well he didn't actually say anything, it was more said through body language really."

"Well why the hell didn't you say anything?"

"He told me not to, and don't ask me why, I have no idea." The room went quite again as both men were once again lost in their own thoughts.

"Do you think that's why he wouldn't say anything last night?" Greg eventually asked in a small voice. John sighed.

"I don't know… I suppose so…. I think he wanted to. He was getting pretty upset with the way the conversation was going." Thinking back to the discussion he had with the detective, he felt like a bastard. He could remember the miserable look on the man's face as Lestrade announced that he would no longer have anything to do with him. He realised that the uncaring words would have been for the recorder, he just didn't understand why. The thing that bothered him the most though was the memory of the white knuckles gripping at the bars; the sudden violent outburst and in particular the shattered look on the man's face as he turned and walked away.

"Was he?" Greg asked slightly taken aback, "I didn't notice."

"You were too angry, too upset, we both were." That was all it was when it came down to it. Too caught up in their own turmoil to notice or care about what was going on in front of them. Now that he had time to reflect, he felt like a prat. He shouldn't have just dismissed him like that. He should have given the man another opportunity to explain himself. He promised that next time Sherlock had something to say, he would listen. He deserved that much.

* * *

**Thanks for reading.**

**Tune in next time when things start to get nasty again (did it ever stop being nasty?)**


	18. Chapter 18

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

While investigating a seemingly ordinary crime scene, our heroes find themselves in a less than ideal situation.

**Warnings for violence and torture***THIS CHAPTER IS RATED M***

Disclaimer:

I do not own Sherlock. It all belongs to the BBC and the magnificent Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The original Sherlock Holmes is of course a creation of the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All credit must go to them for the characters. Even though they don't belong to me, I still like to take them out and play with them once in a while… problem is, I don't always play nice…

Authors Notes:

Wow that last chapter got so many new followers and reviews! Thanks so much everyone!

I promised more nastiness and this is me delivering... I am a horrible person…

*NOTE: I have rated this chapter M because it gets a little full on in the middle there…

* * *

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

- Chapter Eighteen –

* * *

"We found the van!" an excited voice called from the other side of the office.

By six o'clock that morning, the news about the three kidnapped men and the missing van had hit the headlines. As the hours had ticked by with no word, the mood at New Scotland Yard had continued to deteriorate. With little else to go on, they were hoping for a key piece of information that would crack the case wide open and it looked like they might finally have it.

"Where is it?" Dimmock asked, moving towards the excited officer.

"Enfield. Just a few streets down from Cockfosters tube station."

"Enfield?! What's it doing all the way out there? They sure it's the right van?"

"Positive sir, description and registration both match."

Sally looked to her boss and saw the frustration on his face. She understood how he felt. Enfield was miles away from the van's last known location. It didn't make sense that it would suddenly change direction and head east after it had been travelling north-west.

"Do we know if it's empty?" She asked the officer quietly.

"The couple who found it say the doors are all locked, but they reported no sounds coming from inside the vehicle. Local bobbies should be there any second to secure the scene and force the doors."

"I want to know the second they get there." Dimmock said forcibly, "and I want you to send Anderson and a team out there right now to process the scene."

"Already on their way."

"Good" he said quietly, dismissing the officer.

"We should check the security cameras at Cockfosters station. If they used the Piccadilly line, we should have their faces on camera" she suggested helpfully.

"Perhaps a driver maybe… No, this will be a dump job." He said despondently, "we just have to hope they haven't got anyone in there." Sally nodded quietly.

"I'll head out there too, talk to the people who found the van, try to establish a timeline."

"No, I want you to stay here, try to trace the van's movements" Dimmock replied. "Figure out when and how it made its way to Enfield. If we know the route they took, it may lead us to another location. Maybe you can give that mystery source of yours a call. He seemed to be able to deliver on CCTV footage pretty quickly last time."

Sally had actually forgotten about Sherlock's brother, having not heard back from him since the previous afternoon.

"Sure, what are you going to do?"

"Like you said, I'll head out to Cockfosters; interview the witnesses and try to track down some suspects."  
"Sir?" The voice of Officer Butler floated into the room as he reappeared in the doorway. "The local officers have forced the door open, the van is empty."

"Well at least we've answered that question, thank you Butler" he said with a sigh. "Well I better get going. Hopefully Anderson can find something in the van, God knows we need it right now."

With that Dimmock grabbed his coat and headed out of the door, leaving Sally to ponder what she would say to the elder Holmes brother when her mobile phone rang. She looked down at the blocked number curiously.

"Hello?"

"Sergeant Donovan."

"Oh Mr Holmes, I was just about to ring you."

"Is that so? What about, may I ask?"

"I wanted to call in a favour. We found the white van out by Cockfosters station, I was wondering if you could help fast track some CCTV footage like last time?"

"Certainly, consider it done. Was that all?"

"Oh and just to touch base, see if you are having any luck tracing down our mystery dead man. We still have nothing. A few names have popped up on the missing person database, but we've been able to rule them out pretty quickly."

"That was in fact why I was ringing. I may have an answer for you" the man said cryptically.

"Oh really?"

"It would seem as though my brother has once again stumbled across something more than he can handle. ID has not yet been confirmed but I am quietly confident we have the right person. I should receive DNA proof in the next few hours."

"We were told DNA was going to take a few days!" Sally argued.

"Not when I ask for it, Sergeant."

Sally didn't know what to think. Was this guy for real?

"I am sending an Agent Trent Williams from the Home Office to New Scotland Yard, so make sure you are there. "

"Home office?"

"Yes."

"What's going on? What's all of this about?"

"He will arrive in the next ten minutes to fill you in on the details. I apologise Sergeant but I must go" and with that the line went dead.

"Ok" Sally said, somewhat dumbstruck. What the hell was going on?

* * *

It had been several hours after they had taken Sherlock away before he was finally returned to the neighbouring cell. He walked slowly and with some difficulty but more or less off his own accord. Rusty pushed him through the open doorway where he stumbled for a second, his momentum and concentration temporarily lost. It was the first time that Lestrade witnessed the detective's mask start to slip. Several creases and a slight look of despair appeared on the man's face before he had a chance to disguise it. As if aware of his mistake, Sherlock paused for a moment and regained his composure, before shuffling slowly forwards once more, his mask firmly back in place.

"Don't get yourself too comfy, we'll be back in a minute." Frank said with an almost manic grin before he and his partner disappeared back down the corridor.

Neither he nor John could think of anything to say to the detective, who despite putting on a strong front was clearly in pain. They watched as he slowly limped towards the thin mattress and carefully lowered his body into an awkward sitting position.

"That doesn't sound good" Sherlock mumbled to himself; his head falling back against the wall with a slight groan.

"You alright?" John called quietly from beside him.

Sherlock turned his gaze towards the two of them, a look of confusion in his eyes. He appeared to hesitate for a moment before casually replying.

"I'm fine."

"Really?" the doctor asked, more than a little scepticism in his voice. "Where have you been? What have they been doing to you?"

"Let's put it this way John" Sherlock said, cutting the man off mid sentence. "If this was a competition, you'd still be winning." He replied with a small smile.

They could hear footsteps drawing closer and the three of them watched as Rusty and Frank returned, this time with Jatz who held an armful of sinister looking equipment.

"We thought that seeing as though you didn't wanna eat your dinner last night, we'd best feed you." Frank said gleefully as he re-entered the small cell, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

"There's no need, I'm not hungry" Sherlock replied casually, looking away from the small group and their disturbing grins.

"Well we wanna make sure you keep your strength up you see. There's still some long hours ahead of you Mr Holmes."

"Fine give me a bar then."

"After Jatz went to all this trouble? We don't wanna hurt his feelings now do we?"

Frank's tone slowly changed from a psychotic sing to an intimidating threat, as he stood over the battered detective. The tension in the room dramatically increased, as Rusty slowly moved around to Sherlock's left side, a piece of tubing in his hand. Sherlock for his part looked like a cornered animal; his body prepared to flee or fight at any second.

"Oh God…" came John's whispered voice. He turned his head slightly to glance at the doctor who was staring wide eyed at the scene playing out in front of them.

"What?" He whispered back, slightly confused.

Before John had a chance to answer, the room next door exploded in a scene of wild yelling and frantic movements. Rusty had tried to strike first, taking a flying leap at Sherlock's head. The detective was able to avoid it just in time, lunging sideways into the newly formed gap. He would have made it too, if it was not for Frank's quick hands. The thug managed to grab onto one of his ankles, causing him to fall flat on his face. Sherlock lashed out wildly at the man's body and managed to kick himself loose, but not before the other two were back on top of him.

Voices were lost in a sea of confusion as all three men scrambled on the floor trying to restrain their prisoner.

"Hold him still!"

"Get the cuffs!"

Sherlock tried frantically to worm his way free of their controlling grips, desperately kicking and punching out at the bodies around him.

"OW! He hit me in the face!"

"Hold him still!"

"Goddamnit! Keep still you piece of shit!" Frank yelled as he pulled back his arm and punched the detective forcibly in the side of the head.

Sherlock stopped struggling, momentarily impaired by the shock of the blow. Seeing an opportunity, Frank quickly sat on his chest, effectively pinning him to the ground.

With some power of control now restored, the three men were able to turn the detective onto his side, just enough so they could handcuff his arms behind his back.

Even though he couldn't see exactly what they were doing, it didn't take much of an imagination to work it out. Jatz and Rusty were both kneeling by Sherlock's head, obscured from view. Sherlock had long since recovered from his latest blow and continued to thrash around on the ground despite the handcuffs and the man on top of him. It was this sight, more than anything, which made Greg's blood run cold. Ever since they had got there he had never seen Sherlock put up a fight like this, tending to usually accept what was coming to him. This was different though. He could hear loud choking and gagging sounds as the detective continued to violently resist the tube being forced down his throat.

"Stop it! He's going to choke!" John yelled but they just ignored him, forcing the tube deeper down into the man's body.

He felt sick.

He had wanted Sherlock to suffer for what he did to them, or rather what he failed to do, but nothing like this. He wouldn't wish this kind of treatment on his worst enemy, little own a friend. Was he still a friend? He honestly didn't know anymore. Either way, he wished the man's torment would soon end; he didn't know if he could watch for much longer.

* * *

He couldn't breathe.

His throat felt like it was on fire as they pushed the tube deeper down towards his stomach. His rational brain tried to tell him to stay still; the only thing he would accomplish by fighting them is a prolonged experience. He knew all this and he wanted to react, but his body would not allow it. Panic had set in and he could do little more than wriggle around on the floor uselessly, trying to knock the men off.

The tubing was thick and he could feel it scrape along the walls of his oesophagus. His chest shuddered painfully as he wheezed around the obstruction. His lungs felt ready to burst as the tears started to flow down his face. He wanted to scream but couldn't.

After what seemed like an eternity, the tube reached its destination and he was finally able to breathe again. The room suddenly went quiet, as all three men slowly got to their feet, giving him a moment to catch his breath. He could see the thick, yellowish, cylinder shape, sticking out of his mouth and beyond that, the faces of his two former friends pressed against the bars of the window. He wanted them to go away. He didn't want them to witness this humiliation, but they seemed completely fixated on what was happening. Unable to do much more, he closed his eyes hoping that when he opened them again, he would wake up from this nightmare.

He had known that this was coming as soon as they had entered the cell - He could see it on their smug faces. Sherlock had heard of force feeding before, knew the methods but nothing could have prepared him for the reality of experiencing it first hand. It was ten times worse than anything he had imagined and they were only half way through…

"God what the hell did you put in this Jatz? It looks like vomit and it smells like piss!" Frank exclaimed from somewhere to his right.

"Funny you should mention that" Jatz replied humorously.

"It's my secret recipe" Rusty interjected. "Both tasty and nutritional."  
The three men chuckled to themselves as they moved back towards him; their presence casting a cold, dark shadow over his already abused body. Like a child he tried to pretend it was all a bad dream; as if by ignoring the scary men they would simply go away. The brief fantasy was cut short however, when he felt his body being propped up slightly on the edge of the mattress.

"Don't do this" he heard John say firmly from the cell next door.

Though it wouldn't do anything to stop what was about to happen, it did make him feel a little bit better. Maybe he did still care after all.

"Jatz stick that funnel on the end there."

A strong sense of fear threatened to take hold, as he felt something being attached to the end of the tubing. A number of strong hands took hold of his head, as he felt a familiar weight return to his chest. Opening his eyes, he could see Frank sitting on him once more, holding the pipe and funnel in one hand and grasping his chin with the other. Noticing that Sherlock had opened his eyes, Frank leaned forwards towards him.

"Hope you enjoy it…" He whispered with a smile. "I know I will…"

He could feel his heart start to race as Rusty entered his field of vision, a small bucket in his hands. He tried to turn his head but the hands gripped harder, keeping it in place. His legs kicked and buckled frantically as he tried desperately to dislodge the man on top of him. In the end however, there was nothing he could do but watch, as the bucket slowly tipped and he felt the first splash of gluggy mixture enter his body.

The smell assaulted his nose, the texture his throat.

Fortunately he couldn't really taste the concoction, but he knew from the smell that it wasn't anything good. He felt himself gagging around the mixture as it worked its way down into his stomach. A few times he felt as if he would choke, but Rusty seemed to know what he was doing. He could feel his stomach inflating painfully and he tried once again to move his head with no luck. He screwed his eyes shut in pain as he felt a number of tears escape down his cheek. Just when he thought his stomach would not be able to take any more and would quite literally explode, the flow of mixture stopped.

Everything remained still for a couple of minutes, as if everyone had just frozen. All he could hear for a long time was the sounds of his own rasped breathing with the occasional muttered question from one of the men still holding him down. His stomach ached painfully, the nausea growing with every passing second. After hearing Rusty announce that five minutes were up, he felt the funnel and then eventually the tubing being removed inch by inch.

He felt sick, and as soon as the tubing passed through his throat and out his mouth, that feeling increased tenfold as he tasted clearly for the first time what they had just forced into his body. The hands and pressure disappeared and he instinctively rolled to his side into the recovery position where one of the men thankfully removed the handcuffs. He remained still, trying to control the overpowering urge to expel the foul substance in his overstretched stomach. As much as he would have loved to, he didn't dare do it when the men were still in the room. They were just as likely to do it all over again.

* * *

He had seen people being fed via tubes before but always to help someone and always in a hospital setting. Never had he witnessed anything like that. It made him sick to see that happen to someone he knew, to see Sherlock in so much distress.

Eventually they stopped funnelling the foul smelling liquid down Sherlock's throat and removed the horrible looking tubing they had forced into him. (God knows what damage they had done to the man's stomach and oesophagus).

He and Greg watched as Sherlock rolled onto his side and Frank removed the handcuffs. The detective did not move at all while the men collected their equipment, his hands flopped limply behind his back. It was only a few more seconds until the three men finally left, making several derogatory comments to the curled up man as they went. Sherlock for his part didn't seem to hear them. He remained on his side with his head angled towards the ground as he slid his free arm back over his body and grabbed at the floor in front of his face. He breathed steadily through his nose, both his eyes and mouth closed tightly in concentration.

"Sherlock?" he heard Greg ask quietly beside him, but the man did not reply. In fact he made no indication that he could even hear him.

As the footsteps moved further away, he could see Sherlock's body convulse slightly, his breathing hitching every so often.

"Sherlock are you okay? Can you hear me?" he asked softly but the man was still not listening.

Clearly unable to hold on any longer, Sherlock got to his hands and knees and scrambled towards the toilet. His body heaved and shook as he emptied his stomach of the mixture they had forced him to ingest. Just as he thought that the detective had stopped, Sherlock would stick his fingers down his throat and up would come more of the foul liquid.

After what seemed like close to ten minutes, Sherlock had expelled all that he could. Sitting with his head in the bowl, he took a few seconds to catch his breath before flushing the liquid away. He slowly got to his shaky feet and leant over the basin, rinsing his mouth out and taking a small drink before letting himself collapse against the wall. He slowly let his abused body slide down to the floor beside the basin. It was only then, when the majority of him was hidden from their direct view, did he finally respond to anything that he or Greg was saying.

"You okay?" He asked again gently.

"Yeah" came the quiet yet shaky response.

"So am I still winning?" He asked after a little hesitation. Sherlock didn't say anything, but gave another amused huff in way of an answer.

"Hey it's gone" Sherlock said blankly.

It took a second for John to realise what he was talking about, but from where he was sitting, he could only be referring to the recorder.

"Yeah, Jatz took it away this morning when they came to get you. I haven't seen them replace it."

"Good" Sherlock replied with a sigh.

A few more minutes passed in near silence before Lestrade finally spoke up, saying what he couldn't bring himself to ask.

"Listen Sherlock, I know you're probably not feeling that great at the moment, but seeing as there's no voice recorder here anymore care to explain what the hell is going on?" Sherlock sighed but did not move. Another couple of minutes passed before the detective finally spoke.

"You need to believe me when I say that all of my actions since arriving here, I have done with the best intentions." Lestrade scoffed next to him. "You have to believe me when I say that I never intended it to go that far." He continued, sticking his head out from the wall and staring intently at John.

"Well what were you expecting to happen?" Lestrade growled out. He was starting to get angry again. Sherlock dropped his head back to the wall and took a deep breath.

"Listen, I would love to explain this to you both and as long as the recorder stays away I promise I will; but I don't know how much time I've got before they come back to get me. I need to know everything that you told them. Everything that you know and may have found out, it's important" he said tiredly.

"So let me get this straight" Lestrade started. "You want us to tell you everything and you're not going to give us anything in return?"

"I know how it must sound, but you have to trust me."

"And why should we trust you?" he found himself asking softly. Sherlock's head dropped.

"Please" he finally said after some time. "I'll explain what I can later tonight, I promise. I need to know what you told them so I can start coming up with a strategy. Believe me when I say our lives could depend on it."

The room went quiet again as he and Lestrade looked at each other. Without saying a word, they both agreed that for the meantime they would do what Sherlock asked of them.

"Where do you want me to start?"

* * *

**That was really mean… again…**

**So I do not have a single word written after this (usually I have 2 or 3 chapters in draft form up my sleeve) so there is a possibility you may not get the next chapter at the usual time next week. I will do my best but life has been pretty hectic the last few weeks. On a positive note, after next weekend, I will have two weeks holidays so I should get back up to date in that time. **

**Hope you liked it!**


	19. Chapter 19

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

While investigating a seemingly ordinary crime scene, our heroes find themselves in a less than ideal situation.

**Warnings for violence and torture***

Disclaimer:

I do not own Sherlock. It all belongs to the BBC and the magnificent Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The original Sherlock Holmes is of course a creation of the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All credit must go to them for the characters. Even though they don't belong to me, I still like to take them out and play with them once in a while… problem is, I don't always play nice…

Authors Notes:

Over a week late and only fairly short compared to recent chapters, but I figured that it was better than nothing. Thanks again for all the comments!

Valkyrie Of The Dead – Thanks for the wonderful feedback. I am glad you are enjoying it. A little disappointed to hear that I wasn't able to explain the wall scene 100%. It's a lot easier when you're describing a picture, rather than trying to form one. If you google image the phrase: "Stress Position Waiting for the Guard" there are a number pictures of a man squatting with a bag over his head. I was picturing something along the lines of the one where the man's arms were pointing towards the ceiling, but rather than handcuffed together, they were shackled to the wall… Hope that helps… hopefully I haven't just confused you even more… lol

* * *

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

- Chapter Nineteen -

* * *

"Are you sure?" The man asked for the second time.

"Yes Sherlock, I'm positive" John replied tersely. He was starting to lose his patience. "I only told them what I saw, I don't _know_ anything else _to_ tell them! I can remember you ranting on about a couple of things, but I don't remember the details and even if I did, you weren't making any sense!"

"How about you Lestrade?" Sherlock continued, ignored his rant completely. He turned to the Inspector who was looking equally irritated. It felt like they were being interrogated all over again, and just the notion had him on edge.

"Ahh pretty much the same as John really" Lestrade started, his voice stuttering briefly. It said a lot about how serious Sherlock was acting to have a seasoned police detective stumbling over his words.

"I was a lot more descriptive about what the victims looked like and what they were wearing but that was about it. Ah… they found the note on me, which you already know and it seems pretty clear that they have no idea what it means but… neither do I, so…"  
"Oh come on, there has to be more than that!" Sherlock cried, throwing his hands up in frustration. He had long since removed himself from his hiding spot behind the basin and had repositioned himself on the makeshift bed. He sat awkwardly with his back against the wall, firing questions at the two of them and getting more and more frustrated with the answers. He didn't know whether the detective was annoyed that they had given the men too much information or not enough. Perhaps it was just his normal frustration shinning through - The fact that neither of them had been smart enough to see what was really going on.

"Um… I told them that the shots were reported just after 10pm." Lestrade continued.

"And how did they respond to that news?" Sherlock asked, suddenly very interested.

"Ahh I dunno… annoyed, I guess."

"Interesting…" Sherlock replied, bringing both hands up to rest on his chin. John instantly recalled the man in an almost identical position only days before, sitting on his chair in Baker Street. They had just returned home after visiting a crime scene when Sherlock had flopped into the familiar position. In fact John could remember hundreds of times when the detective had taken up the well-known pose, always enthusiastic and full of barely contained excitement. As his eyes scanned over the detective's now bruised and battered face, the memory did nothing but upset him.

"Anything else?"

"Well, this might be way off the mark, but I got the distinct impression that this Tony Roberts guy was actually a police officer; possibly working undercover."

Sherlock shot completely upright and stared at Lestrade with a fiercely intense look.

"Why would you say that?" Greg looked slightly taken aback.

"Well I could remember you saying that the man wasn't who he was claiming to be and Frank kept asking me about some guy called Alex Walters and about the copper at the scene – the dead one. It didn't really make a lot of sense at first, but then he was asking me very specific questions about police procedure, particularly undercover operations. They were sure that I knew who this guy was… I don't know, it was just a feeling."

Sherlock seemed to drift off and John could almost see the clogs turning in the man's head as his eyes moved rapidly from side to side.

"So they know about that... this is good, we can use this…" Sherlock mumbled to himself.

"Wait, are you saying that I'm right?" Greg asked, rather surprised.  
"Yes, good pickup Lestrade. That piece of information is going to come in handy."

"But... you already knew that?" John said, unsure of whether it was intended as a question or statement.

"Obviously."

"Well, then how is it going to be useful?"

Sherlock slumped back into the wall and closed his eyes, his hands moving back into a praying position.

"So who is Alex Walters then?" Lestrade asked curiously.

"I'm not sure. Probably the officers name, if he was asking questions about him."

A few more minutes passed in complete silence as the two watched Sherlock disappear into his own world, before his patience finally ran out.

"So what's the plan then?"

Sherlock didn't reply at first, still lost in his own thoughts. When he finally did, however, it was not what he was expecting.

"We start feeding them information."

"I'm sorry, what?" Greg asked, sounding confused.

"You heard me." Sherlock replied quietly, his eyes drifting to a spot on the floor. Greg and John stared at him for several seconds, trying to work out if they had indeed heard the man correctly.

"Soooo, let me get this straight... You let them torture not only you, but us as well, and now you're just going to tell them everything anyway?!" Greg asked incredulously.

"Not me, you" Sherlock calmly replied.

"But... I've already told them everything I know." The inspector said, completely dumbstruck.

"Yes, but not everything that I know." Sherlock replied, looking back up at them.

"And why would we do that?" He asked, equally confused by the whole suggestion.

"No not you John, just Lestrade."

"Why me?"

Sherlock hesitated for just a second.

"To make you useful again."

* * *

"…Why would we do that?" John asked, sounding just as confused as he felt.

"No not you John, just Lestrade."

He was completely confused, although that was hardly abnormal when Sherlock was talking to him.

"Why me?"

Sherlock hesitated for just a second and it made his stomach drop.

"To make you useful again."

He felt an overwhelming sense of panic suddenly consume him, before he was able to push it aside. His mind raced as it tried to process what Sherlock had said, but he found that the more he thought about it, the more confused he got. Why now? Why wasn't he useful? How was he ever useful? Why did this only seem to affect him and not John? How was this going to help solve their situation? Looking over at John, it appeared that the doctor was also struggling to make sense of it all.

"I don't understand" he eventually muttered.

Sherlock made a long, pained sigh before he looked back down at the ground.

"They have no use for you anymore Lestrade and unless we change that very soon, they are going to get rid of you and not in a good way."

"Well what about me?" John asked suddenly but Sherlock just shook his head.

"No, you're still useful" the detective replied, dismissing the idea completely with a wave of his hand.

"How am I useful but Greg's not?"

"Well let's see… These men seem very keen to extract the information I have using any means necessary. You are a doctor and they will want to keep me alive until they have what they want so…"

"Ohhh" The doctor replied almost sheepishly.

He could feel his stress levels building, his breathing felt laboured as he focused his attention back to the detective, desperate for some answers.

"I don't understand, if I wasn't of any use to them, why not just kill me from the start, or straight after they finished questioning me?" he asked.

"They thought you were still useful then."

"So what's changed?"

Sherlock sighed but did not answer and it soon became evident that he did not intend to.

"Ok so you're going to buy us all a little time then… so what's your plan?" John asked, changing the subject. "How are we going to get out of here?"

Sherlock suddenly appeared not only exhausted but also defeated as his head dropped even further. "I don't know."

He felt his breath catch in his chest as a new wave of panic hit him. That was the last thing he was expecting to hear from the self proclaimed genius. He must have misheard or misunderstood.

"What do you mean you don't know?" John asked. "You always have a plan; for everything!"

He could feel his anxiety level continue to rise as he took in the unusually subdued man in front of him. It wasn't a mistake, Sherlock really didn't know, and that told him all he needed to know about the man's condition. His concern for his own safety was slowly replaced with that of the consulting detective, as he continued to watch the interaction between the two flatmates.

"Yes and the plan is to buy us more time."  
"But Sherlock, how are we going to get out of here?" John asked him quietly.

"I don't know!" The pained voice caused the entire room to plummet into complete silence. "I haven't exactly been around that much to think about it; been a little tied up with other things, or have you forgotten?!"

"Alright, just calm down" Greg quickly interjected. "We'll come up with something. It just might take a little longer than we expected. Besides, Scotland Yard will be out looking for us. They could burst through this door at any second."

Sherlock scoffed and shook his head sadly. "The Police have no idea where we are."

"What makes you say that?" he asked defensively.

"What? Apart from the fact that they still aren't here yet?" John said sarcastically.

"When they took me this morning, they were very eager to show me the latest news report..."

* * *

"_Well, well well, look who it is. A very good morning to you Mr Holmes and what a wonderful day this is already shaping out to be."_

_Sherlock slowly raised his head and made eye contact with the ever intimidating Mr X, who today had opted for a well fitted white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow._

"_I trust you had a good night's sleep?" He asked like a nurse would ask a patient. Sherlock for his part did not answer but tried to stand a little straighter. _

"_I saw something on the news this morning that I thought you would be most interested in seeing." Sherlock attempted to look both bored and disinterested, but couldn't help but feel slightly curious as X pulled out a computer tablet with a paused video on the screen. Sherlock recognised the frozen image as that of Detective Inspector Dimmock and Sergeant Donovan. This instantly caused a feeling of dread to wash over him as X leaned forward and un-paused the video. He was thankful that Rusty still had a steady hand on him as he felt his legs grow weaker with every passing second. Within the first minute, it had become painfully clear that New Scotland Yard had hit a wall in its investigation into their disappearance._

"_Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade from New Scotland Yard, were abducted from the Skyridge hotel at around 11.30 on Tuesday Night." _

_He watched as his picture popped up on the screen next to that of his two friends. After a couple of seconds, the images were replaced by a scratchy surveillance screenshot of a white van, just a few streets west of where they were taken._

"_We are asking the public for help in locating these three men and the vehicle used to abduct them." Dimmock proceeded to give details on the make and model of the van as well as a description and plate numbers. _

"_It was sighted in various areas around London and was last seen in Chesham, heading north-west. We are looking for any information on the route the van may have taken once leaving central London." _

_The four men in the room all chuckled as they glanced at each other knowingly._

"_We've got them going around in circles" Rusty muttered, an amused grin on his face. _

_Sherlock diverted his glance back to the screen where he continued to listen to Dimmock's appeal for information. _

"_If anyone has any information about the abduction of Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson or can provide information on the whereabouts or movements of the van in question, please call the Homicide Department at New Scotland Yard."_

_A series of small numbers appeared on screen before the image suddenly flicked back to a sombre looking news presenter who continued the story._

"_Police have also been able to confirm that there is a likely link between the discovery of two bodies, and the fire which destroyed the Skyridge Hotel in central London. The two murdered men had been discovered only hours before the blaze broke out late on Tuesday night. It is believed that the officers investigating the case, were abducted by the same group of people who set the fire. Despite their best efforts, police are yet to ID the two victims but we will continue to keep you updated as the case unfolds. If you think you can help the police with their inquiries, here is that number again: 666 35724. Now to some light-hearted news, and three ducks caused chaos for a number of motorists on the M6 this morning after..." _

_The video suddenly stopped and the three lackeys burst out laughing._

"_Oh that's classic!" Frank practically yelled, wiping tears away from his eyes. "I don't know what's funnier, the fact they have no idea what's going on, or that they followed up with ducks!"_

_The three men continued to snicker as X looked on with a wide smile. Sherlock felt sick. It was blatantly obvious that the Yard had absolutely no idea what was going on and more disturbingly, no idea as to where they were being held. He felt frozen as he continued to stare at the now blank screen. He had been hoping that a rescue would be forthcoming, either from the police or Mycroft's men. It seemed however, that the prospect of that happening had all but evaporated and he found himself experiencing an overwhelming sense of dismay. He didn't know how to get himself out of this mess and his hope of rescue seemed further away than ever._

"_Looks like you will be our guest for the foreseeable future." X said in a very cold and menacing voice. "I want you to keep that in mind when the boys are doing their thing. You're mine Sherlock Holmes and you are not going anywhere." _

_As much as he tried to ignore the threat, he found that it was all he could think of. The news clip ran over and over in his head so much so, that he could barely hear the questions they were asking him. Each blow they delivered, just reinstated how lost he felt. Every shock they administered reminded him of just how trapped he really was. Even if he could find a way out of there, he had no idea where he was. He didn't know how fast he would be able to move in his weakened state, but it would be a good bet that they would catch up with him... and then what? He hated this feeling; he had never experienced it before. He had always known where he was at all times, always had a plan but not now. Now he had nothing._

* * *

He finished telling John and Lestrade about the news report and looked up at his two companions, trying to gauge their reactions. They had both tried to hide it, but he could see that they were both anxious about this new piece of information.

"So they don't know where we are... well hopefully something helpful will come out of it. I mean that's why they're doing it right? To create leads?" John asked, turning to look at Lestrade for confirmation. The Inspector gave him a slight nod of his head but did not elaborate.

"So the police are just going to take a little longer than we first thought, that's why you're trying to buy us some time right?" John continued, turning back to look at him with hopeful eyes.

"Right" he said sadly.

"Ok, well just tell us what we need to do."

Sherlock turned all of his attention to the Inspector who looked quite sick.

"Lestrade are you with me?" He asked, trying to distract the older man from the number of thoughts no doubt running through his head.

"Yeah" the Inspector replied quietly.

"You need to listen very carefully and do exactly what I say."

"Ok" the man nodded, "just tell me what to do."

* * *

**Sorry, I had to leave it there for now; I am really struggling with this at the moment – I've hit a bit of a wall. Bear with me; it may just take me a while to figure out how I'm going to tackle this next bit... It's really doing my head in. Any ideas/feedback/suggestions at this point would be incredibly helpful. I need to find some inspiration again…**


	20. Chapter 20

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

Blah Blah Blah Confusing case with violence and torture.

Disclaimer:

I do not own Sherlock. It all belongs to the BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The original Sherlock Holmes is of course the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All credit must go to them.

Authors Notes:

Thanks to the people who offered up their time to give me some encouragement and ideas. The truth is that I have a plan for where the story is going, but I am having trouble getting it to make sense. It's confusing me and I'm the one writing it, so you guys would have no chance, lol. So yeah, I took people's advice and went back and reread the story from the start and wow was that an interesting experience. My god, it is so long! I thought it would only take an hour and it took all friken night! I also found that there things I wrote that I had completely forgotten about! For example:

"_What can you tell me about Alex Walters?" Frank asked as he leaned forwards in his chair, suddenly very serious._

_ "Who?"_

Me: Wait, what? Alex Walters? Who the hell is Alex Walters?!

Needless to say, I had accidently changed the name in my notes and would have confused everyone – problem averted. I also realised how poorly written some sections really were, so I went through and re-edited the entire story. Most of it hasn't changed much except for maybe for a small section in the last chapter. Hopefully it reads a bit smoother now.

So yeah, thanks again for all the comments I really appreciate them.

* * *

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

- Chapter Twenty -

* * *

Within ten minutes of the phone call, Sally was summoned to the station's front desk - there was a man there to see her. He would have been in his mid forty's, yet still looked extremely fit and healthy for a man of his age. He was dressed in a suit and tie and remained fairly quiet other than to ask for a private place where the two of them could talk. Sally directed the man to the nearest interview room, where they sat opposite each other, a small, narrow desk separating them. He placed a thin briefcase on the table and then asked to see her badge and ID. Feeling slightly irritated, she reluctantly complied and after the man was satisfied that she was who she claimed to be, he looked around the room suspiciously before finally fixing his eyes onto hers.

"I'm sorry for the distrust, but I need to be sure that no one else is listening to this conversation and that it is not being recorded in anyway. For all intents and purposes, consider the information that I am about to give you as classified."

Sally was stunned by the admission but was quick to assure him that the recording devices were all switched off and that they would not be interrupted. With some apprehension, the well dressed man finally introduced himself as Trent Williams and explained that he worked for the Home Office and was overseeing a very important case.

"We are aware that your department has issued a number of searches and inquiries relating to a man by the name of 'Tony Roberts'. This name and that of the Skyridge Hotel, have both been flagged on our system."

"Okay" Sally replied slowly, still unsure exactly where this was going. Williams reached over and unlocked the briefcase, pulling out a small file.

"Both names relate to an ongoing undercover operation. Our agent's name is Alex Walters; however he was working under the name Tony Roberts." Williams said as he pulled out a photo of a young officer in his dress uniform.

"When he last checked in two days ago, he reported the Skyridge Hotel at his current location. We understand he may be one of the people discovered in the building" he continued, placing the photo on the desk in front of her. The young man was quite good looking, brown hair and piercing green eyes. He looked so proud to be wearing the uniform, a genuine smile on his face. It was hard for her to connect this enthusiastic man to the burnt pile of flesh and bones now lying in St Bart's mortuary.

"I can't say for certain, but he appears to match the description given by one of the officers on scene." Sally said carefully, running her fingers over the picture absentmindedly; Trent Williams simply nodded.

"We understand that a second victim was found at the hotel, we need to know if it could have been this man." Williams pulled out a second photo and placed it next to the first. This man in comparison looked very nervous. Up against a plain cream wall, the man who appeared to be aged in his late twenties, looked dishevelled and extremely stressed. His black hair stuck out in all directions as his sunken eyes stared straight at the camera lens.

"Well, it's hard for me to say… I never saw the original scene but both officers who I have interviewed, described the second victim as being in his late teens or early twenties… This man looks a lot older. If you want confirmation, you will need to talk to one of the officers who was first responded."

"I understand, thank you." Williams replied calmly, tucking the second photo back in amongst his other files."

"Why? Who is he?"

"He is a witness and informant who was in our custody. Agent Walters had been assigned to keep him safe until we could move him safely out of the city and into a more secure location. We were planning to have them moved that morning, but it would appear that, they were discovered."

"Yeah looks like you did a great job. Why, if this guy was in protective custody, was the police not informed?" she asked, getting angry.

"The case is one of national security and as such was deemed to be best handled independently. I am sure you can understand."

Sally could feel her blood pressure rising. What the hell had Lestrade walked into? Matters of national security? Classified information? Mycroft Holmes had not been exaggerating when he said that they had stumbled across something that they could not handle.

"So your officer was killed… Who by?"

"As to who actually pulled the trigger, we don't know, but we do believe it was a hit."

"Ok, so who put out the hit?" she asked, getting frustrated.

"I can't tell you that, I'm afraid."

"Well who was he protecting?"

"I can't tell you that either."

"Well what the hell can you tell me?!" Sally said, now well and truly pissed off. "I thought you said that whoever it is has gone missing! Don't you think that we could help?!"

"I'm sure you could, however like I said, this is a matter of…"

"National security, yeah I heard you the first time" she grumbled, getting to her feet. She walked over to stare at herself in the two-way mirror, aware that if she didn't find a way to vent the growing anger inside of her, she would likely explode. "Well if you can't tell me anything, why are you even here?" she asked, successfully suppressing her growing rage. "What do you want?" She said turning to look back at the infuriatingly calm and passive man.

"Information."

* * *

The cell door opened and Sherlock quickly sat up from his curled position on the mattress. Rusty walked up to the detective and grabbed at his shirt collar.

"Get up!" he said gruffly, pulling him upwards as Sherlock stumbled to his feet. "Move it!"

Sherlock limped forward, as they pushed him roughly through the door. The detective kept his eyes downcast and was marched away, without having made eye contact with either of them. As Sherlock and Rusty moved out of sight, Greg quickly made his move.

"Hey Jatz, I need to talk to you" he said quietly, sticking his arm through the bars to get the younger man's attention.

"I don't have time for a lecture." Jatz mumbled, as he made his way to leave.

"Wait, I have some information!" he called, slightly louder. He heard the footsteps pause and a few moments later, his face reappeared.

"What?" Jatz tried to appear uninterested and bored, but he was doing a poor job.

"Sherlock was trying to ask me some questions just before and he let it slip that Tony Roberts, was really an undercover agent."

"What the hell are you doing?" John whispered loudly, coming right up beside him. Jatz on the other hand looked rather disappointed.

"Shouldn't you have known that?"

"No, I work homicides. Undercover operations are a completely separated division. I have no knowledge of any undercover operations going on in London or any of the officers involved."

"Well then how does he know?" the man asked, motioning in the direction that Rusty had just taken Sherlock.

"Something about his hands and the way he was dressed… Look I don't really know, it's just what he does. He can see what other people can't."

"Yeah righto copper, too bad we already knew all that." Jatz said with a snarl, moving back out of sight.

"That's not all" he replied quickly. "He also mentioned the name of the case, the officer was working on."

"And how would he know that?" Jatz asked again, more wary this time.

"Apparently it's pretty high profile, his brother works in the government, he hears things."

"Go on then."

"No, I want something first" he said, slightly nervous.

"You're hardly in a position to make demands" Jatz said with a slight snicker

"It's not a demand, merely a request… in payment, of some new information." He replied carefully.

"Lestrade!" John hissed under his breath.

Jatz appeared to be carefully considering his options before quietly asking "What do you want?"

"Just some basic supplies. First Aid kit, food, soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, that kind of thing."

"You don't think you may be pushing it a little?"

"Hey, even prisoners in Guantanamo Bay get that much."

This caused a slight smile to spread across the young man's face as he weighed up his options.

"What the hell are you playing at?" John hissed angrily at him.

"Stay out of it John! You need this stuff more than anyone and I don't see Sherlock doing much to help, so why should we be obliged to keep his secrets?"

The look John gave him could have melted ice, but he simply ignored it, choosing instead to turn his attention back to the young man at the door.

"I'll be back" Jatz said with a stony face, as he turned to leave.

"I don't believe this." John said quietly, moving further back into the small room.

"That makes two of us." He said bitterly, looking into Sherlock's empty cell.

He remained silent after that, wondering when Jatz would return. More importantly, who or what would he would bring with him?

* * *

"What? You can't do that!" Sally cried.

"I'm afraid we can. Agent Walters was protecting a very important witness who has now gone missing. It is imperative that we find out his location before someone else does."

"Yeah well we have _three_ people missing as a direct result of this case and they are _our_ officers. "

"I understand that, but that is not our priority, we will leave that part of the investigation up to you and your department." Sally could feel her anger about to boil over. If this guy didn't shut his mouth soon, she would happily do it for him.

"Our only interest at this stage is recovering our informant. He holds vital information which could protect hundreds of British Citizens."

"I don't give a damn! We have three people missing; you can't just shut us out of this investigation! What makes you think that your informant hasn't been captured as well? They could be in the same location!" Williams remained calm and quiet while she continued her angry tirade.

"There is a good chance the men were taken in the belief that they had information regarding the whereabouts of our missing person."  
"Yes thank you, we have actually managed to work that bit out by ourselves. How is that going to help us though? They wouldn't have known anything anyway."

"I'm sorry I can't answer that, but in all honesty our best bet is to find the informant. He has important information about the members of this crime group. He may know a name or location of where your people are being held. I'm afraid we have little inside information of the group ourselves, which is why the safety of this man is our first priority."

Sally was speechless.

"I can't believe I'm hearing this" she mumbled to herself. "So you're just going to take off with all of our information, then leave us with nothing? You are going to have the death of three people on your hands if you don't already." She spat angrily at the man.

"I understand that, but we have to remember to look at the bigger picture."

"If you mention national security again, I swear I will hit you."

Trent Williams gave her a sympathetic look before placing the files back in his briefcase.

"I'm sorry I could not be of more help" he said, getting to his feet. "I will be expecting a copy of all your files to be ready in the next hour. I will send an agent to collect them."

"Don't think this is over" she said in a threatening voice, causing Williams to pause for a moment before walking out the door. Sally was left alone in the room with an overwhelming urge to hit something. Hard.

* * *

**A/N: I'm not saying that I am out of my little rut, but I am still plodding along slowly, trying to sort out the pieces. Hopefully it won't be a month till my next update…**

**I also hope this makes sense… it's what I've been stuck on…**


	21. Chapter 21

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

Blah Blah Blah violence and torture.

Disclaimer:

I do not own Sherlock. It all belongs to the BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The original Sherlock Holmes is of course the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All credit must go to them.

Authors Notes:

I'm still plodding along, taking this story one chapter at a time. It will depend on how busy I am during the week as to whether there will be chapters up on the weekend. I apologise now for any inconsistency that will likely occur with chapter updates. Unfortunately this is how it is going to be until I can get back into the groove of things. In the meantime, thanks for all the reviews and the support!

* * *

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

- Chapter Twenty One -

* * *

Jatz walked back to their cell door less than twenty minutes later, his face void of expression. Without knowing what the young man had in store for him, Greg swallowed down the growing fear and took a nervous step forward. Thankfully his concerns were short lived, as Jatz pulled a small bag from inside his jacket pocket and tossed it in his direction.

"There's your 'payment'" he said in a strong and confident voice, "now spill. I want to know everything he told you."

Greg could not help the overwhelming sense of relief he felt, as he looked down at the small bundle in his hands. Opening up the plastic bag, he started to sift through the small number of items Jatz had no doubt collected in the short time he was away:

Half a bar of soap, two muesli bars, a clearly used toothbrush and a very depleted looking first aid kit.

"This isn't exactly what I asked for." He said disappointedly, as he looked back up at the younger man.

"And yet you're lucky to get that" Jatz replied with a sneer. "Now tell me what he told you, or I'll get the rest of the boys to come drag you out. You can join your mate in the other room getting his back carved up."

"Greg, don't." John growled from behind him.

"What I do doesn't concern you anymore John!" he said, turning to meet the doctor's glaring eyes. "You've made it perfectly clear where your loyalties lie and I for one don't give a damn about his stupid secrets or his bloody ego! He's going to get us all killed!" With that he turned around angrily and addressed the younger man. "He didn't know what the officers name was, but he did mentioned that he was working undercover on the 'Skittles' case."

An instant look of victory appeared in Jatz's eyes and a slight smile appeared on the man's face.

"Are you insane?!" John snarled angrily, grabbing at his good arm and trying to turn him around.

"Get off me!" he snapped back, trying to shake himself free.

Without saying another word, Jatz turned and hurried away. Greg watched the young man disappear, before turning his attention back to Sherlock's cell. A few seconds passed in complete silence, before he felt the grip on his arm gradually loosen.

"Well that seemed to go alright." John said softly.

"Yeah" he replied absentmindedly. Something about the door bothered him but he couldn't quite place what it was.

"I swear, as soon as I get out of here, I'm gonna kill all four of those sadistic…"

"Come have a look at this" he said, cutting the doctor off mid sentence.

"What?" John replied, coming up to stand beside him.

"Look at that" he said, pointing over to Sherlock's cell door. "I think they left the door unlocked." Once he had worked it out, he didn't know how he could have missed it for so long. The door handle was set at a slightly different angle, and looking down the row of bars, he could see the door protruding ever so slightly. Not only was it left unlocked, but they hadn't even closed it properly.

"Do they always do that?" John asked curiously.

"I don't know, I have never payed that much attention. I think I only noticed it today because I was watching Jatz and not Sherlock…"

The two stared at the bars for what seemed like an eternity, neither wanting to say what they were both clearly thinking - that this could be their ticket out of here.

He could see John's eyes scanning the edges of both the barred window and the doorway. He could almost hear the clogs turning in the man's head. If they could just find a way to get into Sherlock's cell, they could simply walk out the door...

Without warning, John hurled himself at the doorway separating the two rooms, using his good shoulder like a battering ram.

"John."

The bars did not budge, which seemed to make John more determined than ever to knock them down. Taking a few steps back, he ran full speed, turning at the last second to slam his entire body weight against the immoveable object.

"John stop!" he cried, moving forward to grab the doctor before he could hurt himself.

"Don't you see? We can get out of here! We just need to get through this bloody door!"

John pushed him out the way before slamming into the bars for a third time.

"Would you just… STOP!" He eventually yelled, grabbing at the man for a second time and momentarily putting an end to John's hysteria.

"Just think about this logically for a minute ok? Even if we can miraculously knock out this door, then what? We don't know where they're holding Sherlock and even if we do manage to find him, we will be outnumbered, with no weapons."

"Well we can't just sit here! You heard Jatz, they said they were carving him up! Do you just want to sit here and wait? Sit here and hope your buddies at the department suddenly grow brains and figure out where to find us?!"

"Of course not, but we need to think this through! Just take a few deep breathes, calm down and we can start brainstorming some ideas."

John was breathing heavily, but his downcast eyes told him that for the time being, he had won the argument. Looking at the doctor, he noticed a small patch of red had seeped through the bandages on his shoulder. Grabbing the man and turning him slightly, he could see an even larger patch on his back.

"Shit John, sit down would you?" He said worryingly, as he steered the doctor over towards the mattress.

"We don't have time for this." John grumbled staring down at his shoulder with disgust.

"To hell we don't. Sit down and let me have a look at it. You'll be no good to anyone if you pass out."

With an annoyed sigh John relented, and sank down onto the bed. He knelt down by his side and began to empty the contents of the small, plastic bag. It was a pathetic attempt at meeting his request but it was still preferable over some of the other scenarios he'd imagined taking place, when he had agreed to play along with Sherlock's ridiculous plan. As he unzipped the little medical kit, his heart sunk even further as he took in its measly contents: 2 bandages, 10 bandaids, 3 alcohol wipes, 6 paracetamol tablets and some surgical tape. Not exactly what he was hoping for, but it was still better than nothing. As he carefully undressed John's shoulder wound, the two once again started to talk through possible escape plans. It had been a popular topic of discussion since being locked up, but with the main door well and truly secured and with no one entering their cell anymore, they had yet to come up with a plausible idea. Greg had originally hoped to befriend Jatz, talk him into letting them go, but it was clear that the kid was in over his head. Secretly they had both hoped that Sherlock would have a plan to get them out, or that the police would knock in the doors at any moment… hopes they now knew were false. Sherlock didn't have a plan and there would be no rescue; but for the first time since hearing Sherlock's devastating admission, the two of them once again had hope.

* * *

Sally stepped out of the interview room, slamming the door closed behind her. Numerous sets of eyes glanced up to stare but she was too angry to care anymore. She stormed her way through the office towards her desk and filed through the piles of scattered paper. Within a few seconds she had found what she was looking for, and punched the small sequence of numbers into her phone before making her way to Lestrade's office. She had been looking for some privacy for her imminent outburst, but being in the room seemed to anger her even more. The ringing finally stopped as the electronic voice at the other end told her to leave a message.

"What the hell is this?! Ring me! Now!" She yelled angrily down the line, before ending the call and throwing the small object on the desk.

"DAMN IT!"

* * *

"Night would be the best time to do it." John started, breaking the silence. "There's no one around and Sherlock would be in the cell."

"What? And we just hope they forget to lock the door again? While he's in there? They may be stupid John, but I don't think they're THAT stupid."

"No… but there's a cell next to Sherlock's isn't there? What's the bet that door is open too?"

"I don't know… so what are you thinking? We somehow break into next door's cell, grab Sherlock, break into the third cell, then walk out while everyone's asleep?"

"Yeah pretty much, what do you think?"

"I think it sounds pretty farfetched… I suppose it could possible… We'll need to find away to get through these bars without anyone noticing though, and we don't have a lot to work with" he said, holding up a bandage and the small roll of tape. "And we will need to find out if that third cell has an unlocked door, otherwise it's all going to end up being a waste of time."

The two fell silent again, which gave him the opportunity to really concentrate on the mess in front of him. John's shoulder had stopped bleeding again, but when he removed the padding, he could see the fierce red swelling which accompanied the area. Placing his good hand gently over the wound, he could feel the heat radiating from the torn flesh.

"John, this isn't looking so good…"

Glancing down at his shoulder, John inspected the area in and around his wound.

"It's becoming infected" the doctor said quietly with a sigh "What's the back look like?"

"Pretty much the same, just bigger."

"Any sign of discharge?"

"No."

"Well that's something at least."

"What can we do?"

"Not a lot… bandage it, keep it as clean as possible until we can find a way out of here."

"At least we have some supplies now," he said, trying to sound positive.

"Mmm" John replied, getting to his feet. Greg grabbed the soap and the first aid kit and made his way over to the sink where John took him step by step through what needed to be done. Within minutes, John had gone an alarming shade of grey, his grunts and cries kept to a minimum through nothing but sheer determination. By the time they had moved on to the exit wound, he thought John might pass out. They were being more thorough with the cleaning this time around, trying to stop the infection before it caused more problems. The extra attention to detail was taking its toll on the doctor, as he swayed precociously on the edge of the toilet seat. When he had finished cleaning and wrapping the wound in the new, clean bandages John was pretty much out of it. After some debate, he was able to convince John to take one of the paracetamol tablets before helping him back to the mattress. Within minutes John's eyes were closed and Greg was left alone to process the afternoon's events in peace.

* * *

Sally jumped slightly as her phone began to ring. She had been staring into space for the last several minutes, her blood still boiling from her encounter with Agent Douchebag. After quickly glancing at the unknown number, Sally answered with her usual professional demeanour but when she recognised the voice at the other end, her tone turned almost feral-like.

"Sergeant Donovan, I believe you wanted to speak to me." Mycroft Holmes said calmly.

"Did you know about this?!" She all but exploded.

"I'm sorry?"

"The Home Office is practically taking over our investigation!" She continued, the anger clear in her voice.

"That would be the logical assumption for a case of this nature."

Sally was once again rendered speechless. She didn't know what pissed her off the most; the words coming out of the man's mouth or the dispassionate way in which he said them.

"Are you serious? Well are you also aware that finding Sherlock and the others are very low on their list of priorities? Your mate Trent Williams told me that it's up to Scotland Yard to find them and that they will not provide any further assistance or information to help with the investigation! I ask you then, what the hell was the point of that little visit, if not to help? They have been missing for the better part of three days and we still have no idea where they could be. The Home Office has in-depth knowledge of the person or people responsible for the abduction but will not share any of the details! Frankly, I don't give a damn about some squealer from the suburbs, we have three people missing and one of them is your brother in case you've forgotten!"

"I have not."

"Well?"

"Well what? What exactly would you have me do Sergeant?"

"Help! You seem to know a lot of important people, pull some strings, hell I don't know…" She was starting to feel emotionally exhausted. "Listen" she continued with a sigh. "The only thing I do know for certain, is that if we don't do something they are going to die. You should know that as well as I do." All of her anger had seeped away leaving nothing but desperation. She clung at the phone, her stomach in knots as she waited for some kind of reply.

"I shall see what I can do."

She let go of the breath she didn't realise she'd been holding, and sank into the closest chair. "Thank you" she said with a small sigh before the line went dead once more. There she stayed, staring at the phone and twisting her fingers together in nervous anticipation. This had to work.

* * *

The sound of scrapping eventually pulled him out from the depths of sleep. He tried to look around to find the source of the irritating noise, but each time he moved, he sent a sharp shooting pain through his shoulder and down into his arm and chest. Grunting, he craned his neck backwards, just enough to catch a glimpse of Greg, who appeared to be fiddling around with something on the floor. Disappointed and in pain, he slumped his head back to softness of the mattress with a slight grunt and tried not to move. He remained still, waiting for the pain to drain away from his shoulder, all the while listening to the repetitive sound and trying not to get angry. They were supposed to be finding a way out of there and instead he was bailed up in bed with a busted arm and Greg seemed to be mucking around.

"What are you doing?" he asked with some irritation.

The sound suddenly stopped.

"You're awake!" Greg replied unnecessarily.

"Yeah, what are you doing? I thought the plan was to try and escape!"

"It is, I'm working on it. I'm trying to make a screwdriver." Greg replied, turning towards him.

Confused and in pain, John slowly and carefully sat up to get a better look at the inspector and the object in his hand.

"What are you talking about?" he asked hesitantly.

"Look" Lestrade replied, passing him the old toothbrush Jatz had given them earlier. The head of the brush was still there, but the plastic at the bottom had been scraped away and was starting to resemble the shape of a flathead screwdriver. "I've still got a way to go but I'm hoping that when I'm finished we can use it to get through the window." He continued, motioning behind him.

John starred at the small plastic tool then back up to the window in fascination. Getting to his feet, he walked up to the barred space, noticing that Sherlock's cell was still empty. Perhaps more importantly however, was the sight of the large screw heads, holding the frame in place. Moving the tool up closer, he could see that Greg had in fact shaped the bottom of the toothbrush to fit the screw; it was just too thick to fit into the small gap. It would still take some time to file it down before they could try to use it, but for the first time since waking up, tied to a chair with a bag over his head, John felt optimistic.

"What can I do to help?" He asked, turning back to look at the inspector.

"Nothing really, it's still going to take me some time to get it down to the right shape and size." Greg replied, holding his hand out to collect his creation. Somewhat reluctantly, he returned the makeshift tool so Lestrade could get back to work. As the slow scrapping sound started up again, he looked back up at the window and couldn't help but wonder if their plan could really work.

* * *

Sally once again found herself holding her breath as she answered the call, unable to even say hello.

"I have arranged for you to work in consultation with the Home Office on this particular case, however it is under the strict condition that you and you alone, will have access to classified information. You will not be able to share this information with anyone else in your team or the department, but you will have access to all the evidence and will be able to point your people in the right direction."

"Okay" Sally replied, a slight tremor in her voice.

"I cannot stress how important it is that information from this case remains a secret. You may not care about their case at the moment, but you soon will. The recovery of the informant has to remain the Home Office's first priority. Having said that, it is not my wish for the others to be forgotten about either. I will have someone come and collect you from Scotland Yard shortly, you can work from the Home Office base of operations. There you will need to sign a confidentiality agreement. Make sure you don't break it. Even I, will be unable to help you if you do.

"I understand, it's just… shouldn't you be telling all of this to Detective Inspector Dimmock? After all he is in charge of this investigation and more qualified to…"

"No" Mycroft simply replied, cutting her off "this agreement is for you and you alone."

"But why me?" There was a long pause.

"… My brother does not respect, nor trust a lot of people Sergeant Donovan."

"You're not seriously trying to tell me that I am one of them are you?" She asked with a slight laugh.

"Sadly no, however Detective Inspector Lestrade is. Sherlock holds him in high regard and trusts him unconditionally, therefore by association, I do as well. The Inspector in turn trusts you Sergeant, therefore I must fall on his judgement into your character and trust you will not compromise this investigation by repeating something you shouldn't."

Sally didn't know what to say.

"See to it that this trust has not been misguided."

"I won't, thank you" she finally replied, her voice somewhat shaky.

"Oh and Sergeant? Find my brother."

Sally nodded silently for several moments before remembering that he couldn't see her.

"Of course."

* * *

**A/N: Looks like their luck could be changing… **


	22. Chapter 22

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

Blah Blah Blah violence and torture.

Disclaimer:

I do not own Sherlock. It all belongs to the BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The original Sherlock Holmes is of course the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All credit must go to them.

Authors Notes:

Hello to all my new readers! I changed the summary trying to suck more people in, but I'm not very good at them. If anyone can come up with one, that doesn't give too much away, I'd be happy to use it : ) This chapter was a little rushed, but I wanted to get it up. I will probably go back over it in the next couple of days and polish it up a bit more.

* * *

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

- Chapter Twenty Two -

* * *

He had been scrapping away at the plastic toothbrush for what felt like hours, when he first heard the noise. It was a slight crashing sound, coming from somewhere nearby. Glancing over at John, it became obvious that the doctor had heard the strange sound too. Listening carefully, he was soon able to distinguish footsteps headed in their direction, accompanied by an occasional crash of a metal sounding object.

"Looks like they're bringing Sherlock back again" John muttered sombrely.

The two stared at each other for a long time before Greg finally snapped into action. He quickly stashed the plastic tool in his jacket pocket and rubbed at the area of concrete with his shoe, erasing all signs of his previous activity, just as Jatz arrived. The younger man carried a folded ladder, which crashed together as he pushed it through Sherlock's cell door. Both he and John had tried to talk to their young captor, but their questions went unanswered as Jatz once again vanished out of sight.

The two men remained silent, no words were needed - they were both thinking the same thing: What's the ladder for?

It didn't take long for them to find out, as an exhausted and bloody looking Sherlock stumbled in, supported on either side by Jatz and Frank. Fresh blood ran freely down his beaten and bloody torso. His shirt had been removed and replaced with an assortment of dark bruises and deep cuts.

The two thugs walked him towards the direction of the mattress before deciding to drop him on the hard ground. Sherlock landed with a painful thump and groaned as he slowly dragged himself over to the soft bed. It was only then that he understood the extent of what had been done to him.

"Oh my god" he heard John whisper, echoing his thoughts exactly.

Sherlock's back had been shredded. Bloody red lines occupied the swollen flesh in their hundreds, crisscrossing the delicate skin until the area resembled mincemeat more than it did human flesh. Blood ran freely from the cuts, which also featured predominantly on other areas of his body, namely his arms and chest.

The detective hadn't moved much since half crawling onto the bed, his head and arms pushed up against the wall, while his legs lay sprawled on the ground. He wanted desperately to call out to him, but knew that he couldn't. He had to play his role and he needed to be convincing. He then did perhaps one of the hardest things he had ever had to do – he walked away. As much as it pained him to do so, Greg held true to the role that Sherlock had given him. He would not turn back around until the three of them were alone again.

* * *

ooOoo

His back felt like it was on fire, it had for several hours now. The first few cuts to his arms and chest had not bothered him. Even as they got deeper, he had been able to distance himself from the pain. It had only been after the first 20 whips of the lash that he found his resolve start to crumble. His first cry of pain was heard around lash 48 and silent tears started to flow at 56. By the time his knees had given out, he had lost count of how many times he had been flogged with the long, leather whip. In the end it didn't matter. He still hadn't talked , and X once again left for the night with little to show for his day of interrogation. He could see that the man was starting to feel the pressure; that last session had by far been the worst. They appeared to be escalating the violence; no longer were simple stress positions and food deprivation enough, they wanted to make him bleed and they were doing a good job of it. His back felt raw and torn as blood pooled in the various crevices of his skin. He didn't want to move from his spot on the bed, but the sounds of bricks being stacked and chains being dragged indicated that he wasn't going to be there for long.

"Right! You know the drill." Frank said, grabbing him roughly by the shoulders and flipping him onto his mangled back. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way."

Once again, he remained silent.

"Tell us what we wanna know and we'll leave ya alone. Don't tell us and we'll get all creative again. Just look at what young Jatz has set up for ya!" Frank continued, gesturing towards the objects in the centre of his cell.

Six bricks lay stacked on top of each other, while a length of chain hung from a hook in the ceiling next to a ladder. He wondered briefly if there had always been a hook there, or if that too was a recent addition to his small prison. For the life of him he could not remember, and that concerned him more than he wanted to admit. He was so exhausted; he was finding it difficult to think straight.

"Well? What's it gonna be smart ass? You ready to start talkin' yet?"

He mustered what little energy he had remaining to give Frank his best look of defiance.

"When are you going to get it through your thick skulls, that I am not going to tell you morons anything."

Frank's smile quickly turned into an angry snarl, as he stepped forward and punched Sherlock across the face. "Oh you will, I promise."

Before he knew it, Jatz had handcuffed his hands together and he was being lifted onto the small stack of bricks. It wasn't particularly high but the nature in which they were stacked, meant that the tower was not very stable, and he found himself swaying dangerously. One end of chain was looped under the centre of the handcuffs while the other was pulled tight, forcing his hands high up, over his head. The chain was secured so that there was just enough slack for him to bend his elbows and move his shoulders slightly, but also enough that it would hurt if he fell. Looking down at the ground, it suddenly seemed very far away. If he were to slip from the brick tower, his feet would not touch the ground. Looking over to the other cell, he could see John standing at the window, a look of horror on his face. He was surprised not to see Lestrade standing there as well, before he remembered that the Inspector hated him. This upset him for a while before he remembered that this was part of his plan, making him feel only slightly better. As the two men started to make their way out, Frank stopped and turned to him once more.

"Oh and I almost forgot. I'm supposed to give ya this" he said, holding up another muesli bar. "I even made sure it wasn't apricot since I know how much you hate 'em." Frank walked back and climbed up two rails to place the small bar in his left hand. "Enjoy" the man said with a smirk, as he folded up the ladder and left.

He had never wanted to kill someone so badly in his entire life.

He looked up at the bar in his hands and he immediately started to wobble. It felt like he was standing on a game of Jenga, just waiting for the moment when the whole thing would come crashing to the ground. He looked back down and within a few seconds had once again been able to steady himself. He would have to be very careful.

* * *

ooOoo

Just looking at Sherlock's abused body had been enough to make him feel ill, but as he watched the man balance unsteadily on the small pile of bricks, he couldn't help but admire him. He didn't know how he was still standing. If it had been him up there… the thought sent shivers down his spine and he was quick to shake the it away.

As the chains were tightened and secured, John could feel the anger rising inside of him; and by the time Frank had placed the small bar of food in Sherlock's hand, he had come up with at least seven different ways in which he could kill the bastard with his hands alone. The two lackies stormed off with a snicker, only stopping to throw a further two bars into his and Greg's cell. As much as he would no doubt appreciate the food later, at that moment he couldn't bring himself to care, not with Sherlock strung up in the room next door.

The detective looked up at the wrapped muesli bar in his hand only for a moment before he started to lose balance. It only took him a few seconds to regain his composure, but he could read the pain and frustration written all over the man's face.

"Are you okay?" he asked quietly

"Mmmmm" came the weak reply. He could feel Greg walk up to stand beside him, staring in at their injured… friend? Acquaintance? As much as he would have liked to refer to him as friend, there were still a lot of unresolved issues between the three of them. It made him feel horrible knowing that this need for answers was still so strong considering everything Sherlock had clearly been through. He wanted to put it all aside and forget about it, but deep down he knew he could only hold back the questions for so long.

"You're not looking so good" Greg muttered beside him. His face had gone pale and he wondered if his own face showed the same look of horror and disgust.

"Mmmm" Sherlock replied with a sigh, his eyes still focused intently on the ground.

"How bad is it?" he asked after a few moments of awkward silence, however Sherlock did not reply.

"Ok then, let me put it this way… If this was a competition… would I still be winning?"

"I'd say we're about even" Sherlock replied weakly. This told John all he needed to know about the man's condition. He had never heard his housemate sound so defeated before, and it worried him.

* * *

ooOoo

His whole body screamed for attention. His back, his chest, his face and most annoyingly, his empty stomach. Figuring out how to get into the small, wrapped bar had soon become his top priority, as he looked back up at the object suspended high above his head. He stared at it for a long time, trying to figure out how he could possibly get at the food inside, willing it to magically float down in front of him. His mouth watered with the idea and his stomach growled, making him desperate for the sustenance. His hands shook slightly as they moved towards each other and carefully tore at the plastic wrapper, freeing the bar from its packaging. The smell of honey hit him instantly, and the sudden distraction, caused him to momentarily loose his balance. Tearing his eyes away from the small treat, he forced himself to slow down and to think about what his next step was going to be. He could feel the sticky texture between his fingers as he tore a small piece away from the bar. Looking back up, he opened his mouth wide and tried to centre it under his hands. When he was confident that the two were lining up, he dropped the small piece of food, hoping he could catch it in his mouth. He watched the piece of muesli fall and disappear out of sight before feeling it hit his chin and bounce to the ground. With an annoyed sigh he tried again, this time hitting the skin just below his right eye. On the third attempt he finally got lucky, but he was so eager for the food that he swallowed it whole, berating himself immediately after. The next time he successfully caught a piece, he forced himself to chew the small morsel six times before finally swallowing and trying again. He continued this technique and the more he succeeded in catching, the more distracted he got. After a while and without even realising it, his mind had completely lost focus on anything but the need to consume more food and soon it was all he could think off, his actions becoming more frantic and eager. He should have known better than to allow his mind to wander. He should have known better and forced himself to take his time; but he didn't, and after taking a wild grab at a piece muesli, he felt himself falling. He bent and twisted his body frantically trying to regain some sense of balance, grabbing at the chains above his head to try and further steady himself. After a couple of heart pounding seconds, the shaking stopped and Sherlock had once again found his feet.

"Wowww, be careful. Are you okay?" John asked from the other room. Sherlock took a few shaky breathes before he dared move again.

"Stop asking me that" he said with an annoyed growl, before carefully looking up at his now empty hands. His heart sank as he looked back down at the ground and saw the half eaten bar lying amongst the lost remnants of the only food he'd had in four days. It was enough to make him want to cry. In fact, if it wasn't for John's well timed question, he might have.

* * *

**A/N: Oh no, I did it again! Poor Sherlock :/ I shouldn't be trusted with his wellbeing…**


End file.
